Rest Stop
by Tidwell
Summary: House's impulsive act changes what might have been...to what is. AU. Parallel Universe, if you like. Huddy, Wilson, Dylan Crandall and a gaggle of OC's. House belongs to David Shore and Fox! Complete!
1. Now

**A/N: **Thanks for tuning in! My special thanks go out to Betz88 for her insights and encouragement.

"Now"

Autumn was good for business, a fact he put down to the brilliant foliage and the cooler temperatures. This time of year cast its spell over the TV addicted morons from the city, as if by wizardry, transforming them into nature lovers. The instant the newscasters started spouting those sappy, happy fall foliage reports, the idiot brigade took it as a cue to pile into their SUVs, Escalades or Mercedes and tool down these backroads to witness the wonder of Mother Nature's majesty. He could sense them coming from miles away. Through their windshields, their expressions would all be the same, all soft and stupid and...overwhelmed.

_Hell_, he wanted to tell them, _if you've seen one bright orange leaf, you've seen them all. Really._

But that was okay...really, because when autumn officially arrived it was also the sign for him to a) raise his prices twenty five percent and b) set a fire in the woodstove. The morons loved the smell of wood smoke, their expressions sickly sweet and dreamy as they leaned against their cars, sucked down a soda and watched that smoke drift from his dilapidated chimney. _Dopes._ But hey, as long as they stopped, gassed up, bought a Nehi and beef jerky, what did he care what got them off?

He sat in his rickety wooden chair beneath the tattered orange awning of his store. _His_ store. He called it Rest Stop because that's what it was. A place to set a spell, y'all come back now, ya hear? Crandall didn't like the name change but, hell, Crandall threw the shithole in his lap, which meant Crandall didn't have a whole lot to say about it anymore. Signed the papers with a shaky hand as he wept, his tears smearing the signature on Transference of Ownership papers.

_Here you go, Greg. Man, I'm sorry. I owe you. I'm sorry, I'm so...  
_  
Greg let out a grunt at the memory, then switched gears to growl along with Buddy Guy on the boombox. _Damn right he's got the blues, from his head down to his shoes. Damn right, Buddy._

Second go round for this CD today. It was so good, like warm balm on a muscle pull. It brought to mind that shithole bar in Maine, the last stop on the east coast trek with Crandall, the night before the accident.

They played a set, then sat in with the house band, Crandall on bass, Greg at the ancient Baldwin with its yellow keys and squeaky pedals. He could still smell the beer, feel the scotch burn a smooth path down his throat. He wondered again (fleetingly) why he let Crandall convince him to head back that night instead of staying holed up in the back room and sleeping off the high. It was all because of a woman. It was always because of a woman.

With a groan, he hoisted his right leg up using two hands, and eased it onto his makeshift ottoman: a large gray brick.

The morons who gassed up in the summer were different than the ones burdening him these days. The summer brought the rabble, the loud, belligerent ones who thought they could challenge him, maybe steal a drink or a gallon of gas. It happened once.

He never thought he would be a victim. He was too tough, too ornery, too crafty, usually able to put punks down with a leer and a few well chosen retorts. He had the look of an older guy who had been around the block a few too many times. His brow was wide, eyes were large, deep set and sharp as blue steel. A slovenliness he inherited from Crandall kept his graying brown hair long in the back, sticking up in tufts on top. When the mood struck he tamed it by pulling it back into a short ponytail with any old rubber band he could find. His distaste for shaving gave him the stubble cheeked look of a street bum. He was slim, tall and lanky, had a drawer full of worn jeans and t-shirts he procured from the Goodwill store.

The diamond stud in his right earlobe and Nike sneakers were his only excesses. But even they had their purpose. The jewelry got the old codgers peeved, while unnerving the kids. The quality footwear made him feel good. If he had to limp around, he might as well do it in style.

No one knew what to make of him, which was how he liked it.

Yeah, he looked feisty enough so that no one would mess with him. But he was also, on occasion, too immersed in the bottle and his painkillers to keep the show going, especially when business was slow. He was extremely blitzed that early summer evening five grungy kids drove up in the rattling, rust mottled pickup. They snapped Greg's cane in half before quietly herding him behind his cash desk to gag him, kick him in the ribs and tie him up. Twelve gallons of gas from the single pump, two hundred dollars from the register, and five cases of beer left with them that night.

It was the first and last time Greg would allow himself to be victimized. An elderly couple found him, untied the ropes with shaking, arthritic fingers. They wanted to call the police but he convinced them not to. His brother was a cop, he lied, he would handle this. After they left, he locked the doors, hauled himself up to the apartment over the store that smelled like sweat, heat, ink and dust, and downed a pint of scotch. He slept for twelve hours and never told anyone what happened.

Not even Lisa.

But he had a pistol now, a Rohrbaugh R9. The nine millimeter fit comfortably in his pocket; it had a nice weight. It was his insurance, giving him back the courage he thought he had lost that August night.

He had no neighbors out here on the New Jersey backroad. Five miles thataway was Princeton, two miles over yonder was the highway. Straight ahead were grasslands that turned yellow in the summer, green in the spring, and shit brown in the fall. Sometimes he would leave his perch in front of the Rest Stop, lock the door and mount his bike. Then he would drive, sometimes aimlessly, just to lose himself in sensation: the bike roaring like an unchained beast beneath him, the wind rushing at him, like a child's overenthusiastic embrace.

Other times he followed the road a few miles to Princeton, where he would treat himself to a movie and a slice. If the mood struck, he might park at the far end of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's parking lot, wait for Lisa to leave work, then roar to a stop by her T-Bird, his visor pulled over his eyes.

"Ride, baby?" he would growl softly, his voice sand over satin.

She flashed him an exasperated look as she pulled open the driver side door. But she could never hide that little smirk of expectancy, that heat.

_"Miss Prim and Proper," he would purr in her ear as she moaned, bucking her hips beneath him._

_Yeah..._

His head jerked up. Two yuppie yokels were pushing themselves out of their Volvo. They smoothed the flat of their palms over their casual wear, then strolled the dirt matted ground surrounding the gas pump. They had been on their journey for quite some time, judging by their tired frowns and the way the guy planted his hands on his hips and swiveled his torso from side to side. His back cracked as he sighed. The brunette rolled her eyes, but he didn't seem to care. He was a tall, strapping tennis pro type, who now hitched a brow at Greg, snapped his fingers, then jerked a macho 'impress the lady' thumb at the gas pump.

"Self serve," Greg told him.

"Fill 'er up," the guy bellowed, heading toward the store. "Wash the windshield down too."

"Self serve," Greg said again. "And I left a squeegee in the pail by the pump," he winked, "just for you.

"I said-"

_Thwap!_ Greg barred the entrance with his cane.

"You don't want my business?" The guy gestured angrily at the barrier.

"I'm just stating the house rules. After all, you are my guests."

"Henry," The woman tugged on tennis pro's sleeve. "the man is a _cripple_."

"Yeah, so? I just need to fill up my tank. Is that so diff-"

"You out for a secret little rendezvous, champ?" Greg jutted his chin toward Henry's hand. "I see a tan line where a wedding ring should be. Your lady love's not wearing a ring at all. A woman never forgets to wear her ring."

The couple exchanged a worried look.

"Oops, hope you didn't leave your ring at home, champ." Greg chuckled, tapping his chin with one finger. "Ah, what a greeting you'll get when you finally return from your 'business trip'. Of course the make up sex might be worth it."

"Let's go." Tennis pro placed a slightly tremulous hand on his lady love's sleeve.

"I'm thirsty. Can I buy a drink?" she asked Greg, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Of course," Greg raised the cane like one half of a drawbridge. With a slow grin, he watched them enter, then sighed, leaning on the cane to push himself to his feet. _This could be fun._ He took one lurching step toward the door then froze. The familiar sound of that motor winding down caused him to turn to see...

Lisa.

He whipped round again and limp marched lively through the doorway. "Attention shoppers," he yelled, startling the pair who were perusing the Snapple case. "Please bring your final purchases to the desk." The tip of his cane _thunked _against the hardwood as he rounded the counter, his eyes steady on the T-Bird out the window. It was now parked by the pumps.

"It's closing time!"

Henry's woman brought up three bottles of Lemon Ice Tea and a bag of pita chips. She dug in her purse, paid for the snacks and added a twenty to fill the tank with Premium.

"Thanks." Greg winked at the two of them. "Have fun pumpin'.'"

Muttering something dour and unintelligible, Henry allowed himself to be led to the gas pump.

At the same time, Lisa was pouring herself out of the driver's side of the Bird. First came the black heels, then those long, long legs, the skirt billowing up to reveal one creamy thigh, nice tight sweater stretching across the landscape of her curves, her boobs. It was a game; she knew he was watching.

At the same time, Henry Tennis Pro was filling his tank, surreptitiously giving Lisa the eye.

_Not a chance, pal_. Greg smiled gently, thinking about her perfume and how she liked to trail those long wine colored nails down his back. His smile widened as his jeans tightened, quite rightly around his crotch.

_Yeah...it's always about the woman._


	2. Then 1983

**-2-**

"Then" (1983)

Silence pressed against his ears. He might as well have been in a vacuum, an air packed bubble of misgivings and misery. A week had passed since Greg arrived home from Maryland and med school. During that time a pall had fallen over the three story colonial, insinuating itself into every nook and cranny of the place.

His mother carried a pile of clean sheets up to the bedrooms, the soles of her slippers padding silently on the stairs. In the half-light of the living room, the tip of his father's Marlboro winked and glowed. Before him, the denizens of the television screen flickered blue and white, going about their business in a land devoid of sound. Life was set to mute.

Greg had been expecting a lambasting, one of those dressing downs his father, the marine colonel, was real good at giving. Instead, Greg's bad news was met with accusatory, disappointed looks, and that cold, stifling silence.

He knew he had to leave. But where do you go when you've just been expelled from medical school without a pot to piss in?

His father gave him two weeks: _Find another school, or a job that'll pay enough to get you a dump of your own. If you can't or won't do these things, you will get a goddamn haircut, hightail it down to the marine recruiting station and sign up._

The last three options...were not options at all.

So for the better part of the day he sat in the Elkridge public library's reference room, thumbing through college catalogues, wondering where he might try next. Another school would be glad to have him. His grades were exemplary; it wasn't as if he had set a bomb in the cafeteria. He had cheated on an anatomy test. Should have gotten a slap on the wrist, instead he got the old heave-ho.

_Could backtalking the dean have had something to do with the end result, bright boy?_

He had been hung over and for some reason couldn't remember the names of the bones of the hand. This compelled him to do what any cocky bright boy might do: take a quick gander at Phil Weber's paper. Stupid, really: right now, rattling off the names of those twenty-seven bones was as easy as saying his name: Greg House..._scaphoid_...Greg House..._lunate..._Greg House..._triquetrum..._and on and on and on...

In the end, he decided the University of Michigan's med school would be the first he would contact. He liked the course descriptions, the professors sounded suitably adept, plus the distance between Michigan and Ohio would do him fine. He would be far enough away to escape the stultifying silence and the hurt in his mother's eyes.

He would have done it. It was on his agenda for the following day. He left the library and drove off, running the scenario through his head as he parked his mother's Taurus in the parking lot of Limerick's Pub. Yeah, he would apply to UoM. The suits there might balk at first, but after they saw his grades, discovered how capable he was, they would beg him to register...

Greg nearly made in into Limerick's without glancing at the signboard out front. But he did look, which was the first of many unfortunate gaffes he would make over the next twenty years. Yeah, he did look, which caused that name to jump out at him like the boogey man on Halloween night.

_Crandall!_

Greg's magic eight ball must have been in the shop that day because he had no sense of foreboding...just elation and a giddiness he couldn't quite comprehend because...

...Crandall was here or, rather, would be here tonight.

Dylan Crandall and his band, 'fresh from a tour of the West Coast' were playing a gig for a hometown crowd tonight. _Woah_, The Limerick was gonna rock. The band was known as Dylan Crandall and Dynamite but Greg used to call them Dylan and the Dyldoes, which would piss Dylan off to no end.

Greg had known Dylan since freshman year of high school, but they hadn't seen each other since Greg left for Hopkins a little over a year ago. Dynamite use to be _the_ band of the land, the one to hire for parties and graduations. They had steady gigs at the most popular bars in town. It seemed Old Dylan had stuck with the program, giving some back, coming off a real west coast tour to play for the trash and ass back home.

Greg and Crandall were a pretty pair of misfits. Greg was the brainy one. Loved reading...anything, crappy pulp novels, Dickensian tomes, the back of cereal boxes. He had savvy and learned early on how to use words to get himself out of a jam. But Dylan was an open book, too eager to trust, a real pushover. Taking advantage of him was as easy for Greg as multiplying square roots. Dylan grew up pampered, coddled and believed most anything he was told, from the sublimely ludicrous to the undeniable truth. When that over the top gullibility got him in hot water, Greg was there to fish him out.

Crandall was a skinny kid with brown wavy hair curled up just above his collar, a generous, inquisitive mouth and puppy dog eyes, which gave him a look of melancholy innocence. Girls thought him 'adorable' but most of the time treated him like their big brother, whereas Greg was more abrasive, a little dangerous. Chicks really dug that.

The common factor that brought Crandall and Greg together was music: it was the essence that made them equals. Greg was the true musician, a natural pianist and not bad on the guitar either, plucking tunes and melodies from anywhere to make them his own. Dylan had a wicked talent for songwriting; what he lacked in social skills, he made up for in his songs. The lyrics were smart; the music was bluesy and rocking, and he had a presence on stage that defied explanation. Within moments of stepping up to the mic and breathing life into his song, Crandall could bring that bar crowd to its feet. No small accomplishment, since most of those inebriated folks had a hard time navigating a path to the can much less singing along with the music.

Greg glanced at the signboard again, wondered about fate, and considered where Crandall had been during the time Hopkins had its hooks in his own sorry hide.

He headed back to the Taurus, knowing he would find out later.

--

"I've been everywhere, G-Man." Crandall shook his head and stared with wonder into his beer, like a scenic slideshow flowed within the brew. "I booked us anywhere that would have us. Saw more crazy shit in a year than I would have hanging around here working at the store. Made some decent money too. We played a cabaret in Vegas, _Vegas, _man." He let out a soft whoop of disbelief. "Dad wasn't overjoyed but...he dealt with it. Didn't tell him half of what went on. You know how that goes."

"Yeah," Greg shrugged, keeping his expression stoic, squashing the sharp twinge of envy in his gut. "Sure do."

Crandall's father owned a store called The Soda Shoppe, downtown Eldridge's only ice cream parlor/convenience store. It had been in Crandall's family for three generations. His dad was a shrewd businessman who also owned a party goods store in Massachusetts and a small gas station in New Jersey. The properties were lucrative, run by Dylan's cousin and uncle, respectively, insuring that the profits made stayed within the family.

"Sorry about school, man." Crandall said. "That sucks."

"Yeah, well, lots of things suck."

Silence pressed in, like it had picked up Greg's scent and chased him here.

"Got an agent now," Crandall continued, "a guy we met out west. He set us up with that Vegas show and has some other stuff lined up." A flicker of excitement shone in his eyes. "We may even record."

"Woah, big time." Greg crowed. "And you couldn't resist coming back to this hole, huh?" He glanced around the place, his gaze touching the milling bar crowd that was rife with half familiar faces: high school kids all grown up, none the wiser, none the better Guys were clad in their football jerseys and John Deere caps, their women in halter tops and jeans that flowed like a sweet promise over their hips. Already these Limerick dwellers were bleary eyed, feeling no pain from pre-show beer and weed.

"We signed a contract with The Limerick before the tour, couldn't get out of it." Crandall said, indicating the room with a wave of his hand. "The guys in the band didn't mind..."

"So..." Greg quirked a brow. "Did you get a lot?"

Crandall lifted the mug, his eyes crinkling at the memory. "You wouldn't believe it."

"Weed?" Greg took a swig from the Budweiser bottle, then set it down easy.

"Well...yeah."

"You were careful, right?"

"Careful?"

Greg heaved an exasperated sigh. "If they find your supplier they can trace the buy back to you." Greg's lips thinned, his eyes narrowing with concern. "You've heard how the FBI is cracking down."

Crandall's face went as white as the foam on his brew.

"Aw, don't you fret none, friend." Greg waved a dismissive hand. "After all, you didn't buy bags and bags of the stuff...right?"

Beer sloshed over the side of the mug as Crandall set it down with a trembling hand. The cardboard coaster beneath it was saturated now, as was the bowl of peanuts and the cuff of Crandall's shirt. He looked beseechingly at Greg with wide, frightened eyes.

"Naughty, naughty..." Greg sang, shaking a forefinger in Crandall's face. "You play, you pay."

"Gawd, Greg." He turned and set his elbows on the bar, burying his face in his hands. "I never knew."

"That's 'cause you're an idiot. Same old Crandall." Greg smirked around the lip of his bottle, before draining it.

"You mean...?" Slowly, Crandall raised his head from his palms.

"I mean...you're an idiot. You'd believe me if I told you there were aliens on the roof waiting to transport you off into the void."

"Should have known," Crandall muttered, fiddling with his napkin before wiping it across his brow. The bartender lumbered their way, eyes traveling disapprovingly over Crandall's mess before whipping out a bar rag and starting the cleanup process.

"Listen...I got to go make some music now." His eyes met Greg's. "You wanna sit in?"

"But... you got a guy."

"I don't got a guy. He hightailed it back home to his ma in Sarasota, Florida," Crandall announced with a smidgen of annoyance.

The old House/Crandall banter had returned. It felt comfortable, like a sweatshirt just out of the dryer, like rag socks and slippers.

"So...I guess I'm it."

"You are," Crandall said, "if you want to be."


	3. A Couple Of Old Pros

**-3-**

"A Couple of Old Pros"

The interior of the Rest Stop personified its owner and, like its owner, was a juxtaposition between light and dark. Even on the brightest days the sun ventured in only as far as the entranceway to settle by the door in a buttery little pool. The store was a house for shadows and unfinished business, a storeroom of memories that just wouldn't stay shut.

It was his own fault, really. If he hadn't wanted to think about the past he wouldn't have surrounded himself with it. But the effect was subtle; the trip down memory lane didn't exactly zap one between the eyes.

_Let's walk down the length of the store. At first glance it might seem there is nothing extraordinary about it: the ancient wood floors creak at the lightest instep; dust bunnies roll across the terrain like miniature tumbleweeds. Since Greg enjoys sweeping as much as he does shaving, he rationalizes the dust is part of the store's charm and leaves it at that. _

_Now here, right down the center aisle, is Sugar Shock Alley: the home of Twinkies and Ho-Ho's, Devil Dogs and Hostess Cupcakes. Take a few steps more to find the salty stuff: beef jerky, bags of peanuts, potato chips, and pork rinds. The metal rack by the cash register offers newspapers, __The National Enquirer,__ and a free real estate guide. _

_But take a better look around, dig a little deeper. Start by the far wall near the cooler and the old Seeburg jukebox. Submitted for your perusal is an array of colorful posters. Some are displayed in simple wooden frames, others have been tacked or taped to the slatwall, like afterthoughts. The posters immortalize an era, a time in Greg's life when he was free and whole, playing music, fondling women and simply...enjoying life. These posters were salvaged from his travels. He pilfered them from men's rooms or the front windows of clubs Dynamite played over the years. Detroit, Baton Rouge, El Paso, so many towns, so many memories. The posters featured the club's name and which bands were playing that week. Dynamite...August 3rd...Dynamite...September 7th... _

_Look at that jukebox, over there by the Snapple case. It's an antique for sure, filled with a generous sampling of vintage forty-fives from the club years. In those days, every town had a 'cool' record store, the one that stocked not only a decent representation of new music, but a better, more comprehensive collection of great old rock and roll, jazz, and dirty, lowdown blues. During the day, Greg would venture out by himself, check with the locals to find where 'that' record store might be and scoot on over. Inevitably, he would discover a trunk load of gems and buy up as many as he could afford. _

_Most of the records that survived the road years were in his jukebox. They were far from mint, worn down deep into their grooves from hours of play, clicking, popping, and occasionally skipping. But they were special, more special than the cleanest, most pristine remasters. The records told the truth; they told the story, warts and all._

_Send a quarter tumbling into the entrails of the Seeburg. The tone arm clicks, the wheel of records turns and whirs and places the chosen piece of vinyl onto the spindle. The needle drops into those scritch-scratchy grooves. Buddy Guy growls through the speakers. Damn right he has the blues, damn right... _

He had her against the wall between the Snapple case and the jukebox, the music rumbling, trembling in his gut, reaching down to caress his balls. His hands cupped Lisa's face as she ground her hips into his. Already they were gone. It didn't matter if the world tumbled off its axis or split down the center, spewing its fire and molten rock into the void. What was important was that they had this hour together.

Her fingers traced the stubble on his chin as he ran a thumb over the top of a half exposed breast.

"Now," she breathed.

He ran his tongue slowly...over her top and bottom lip before she parted them to let him in. Their breath mingled as his tongue played against her teeth, then rolled against her tongue. She tasted like coffee and mint chocolate.

"Now," she growled, demanded, "Fuck me."

"Why, Miss Prim and Proper," he purred and nipped her earlobe. "what would your formidable staff of physicians think hearing you talk that way?"

Lisa Cuddy-Haversham was the Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. How far out of his class had he ventured? Miles? Light years? Wasn't there some sort of electrified fence between the privileged and the great unwashed to prevent this sort of pairing?

Obviously not.

The tips of those wine colored nails tore through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, digging into his back, causing him to jolt and gasp. "Damn," he hissed after catching his breath, "you want what you want." He chuckled low, then kissed her hard, wincing as their teeth clicked together. Her fingers made their way behind his head and fumbled at the scraggly end of his ponytail. She liked it, found it strange, alien, an enormous turn-on.

Her thighs enfolded him and she jerked her hips _up_ against the rock hardness that was his crotch, causing his breath to hitch and burn in his throat.

"Let's go," he managed to say, finally.

--

She exhausted him, yet energized him.

He was no longer a young man. At forty-eight, with his road warrior years behind him and the pain of his injury always with him, he felt at least ten years older than he should have.

At forty, Lisa was youthful, exuberantly lusty, at the age when women supposedly reached their sexual prime. In this case, Greg believed it. Now and then, if he wasn't slightly inebriated or buzzed on his meds, her enthusiasm for sex made him somewhat uncomfortable.

_What the hell does this successful, beautiful woman want with a burnt out old codger like you?_

But lying in the half-light of his bedroom, with Lisa drowsing beside him, he could pretend he was twenty-five again. He could pretend he was the charmer, stealing the beauties from Crandall, leaving the leader of the band with the chaff.

Lisa stirred. He let one hand drift down her shoulder to rest against her back; her skin was still moist from energy expended. He sighed at the warm glow lingering in his lower extremities. The lovemaking had been particularly lively today.

It amazed him how she knew how to position herself to put the least amount of pressure on his leg, yet never skimp on the ride.

It was also interesting that even after six months of this odd, enduring 'relationship' she still bothered hauling herself out to this despicable hovel every couple of days. They could go to a hotel, rent a room somewhere. But _no_, she told him, she liked it here. The room encompassed his scent, his energy, his brashness.

_Well, alrighty then..._

The moss colored carpet was a paean to ugliness, the component stereo by the door had speakers that on occasion crackled with the beat of the current hit to click. An electric piano and beat up Martin acoustic stood at attention in the corner, holdovers from eons ago. He maintained them the best he could but, yeah, they had seen better days.

Fortunately, his bed was a winner, carefully chosen to provide comfort and support. Other than his sneakers and the diamond stud in his right earlobe, it was the only part of his life he hadn't skimped on. He needed a good night's sleep to escape the leg pain for eight hours, with or without the aid of the Vicodin Lisa so kindly prescribed.

Books were here too. Lots of them. They were piled high on rickety wall shelves and in wooden boxes the farm stand guy down the road swapped him for a couple of six packs of Bud.

You could never have too many books. He scoured flea markets, library book sales and thrift shops, usually coming away with a shopping bag filled with treasure: sci fi anthologies, old medical journals, biographies, history books... He read them, re-read them...then devoured them again.

Greg knew what was in his library, could put his hand on any book he felt a yen to peruse. It intrigued Lisa that she was able to pull a random tome from the batch and challenge Greg to recite a passage or two. Without fail, he met that challenge, coming up with the approximate page number as well.

_Sure it was magic. Like a goddamn parlor trick_.

A warm breeze blew through the space between the curtains, tickling her hair. She was awake now, smiling, gazing at him in drowsy contentment.

"Don't you have to go?" he asked.

"Why?" She propped herself on one elbow and yawned. "You want me to?"

He blinked, ran a hand over his stubble. "No."

"Then don't worry about it." She shifted closer, made languid circles on his chest with one finger.

"What's ol' Charlie going to think when he gets home for his tipple and doesn't have wifey handing him his glass?"

The corners of her lips twitched. Her brow creased. "If I couldn't stay awhile, I wouldn't have come. Charles is...away. Sammy's sleeping over his friend's-"

"Where'd Charlie go?"

"He's just away, does it ma-"

"Aw, how come you never want to shoot the breeze about ol' Charlie?" Greg lay back and gazed at the ceiling. Her finger's lazy revolutions made him want to close his eyes and drift.

"Why should I?"

"'Cause...he's your husband," he muttered.

She coughed lightly and stopped her ministrations, which prompted him to open his eyes and turn to her. He was about to suggest she continue when that look in her eyes stopped him cold.

"You really don't give a damn about anything, do you?" she said.

Silence arrived, opened its case and set up shop.

"Do you?" she repeated.

"I like when you're here. I like talking to you. I love what we do...here," he said, curling a strand of her hair around his forefinger. "But you have ol' Charlie and Sam. I'm just some kind of odd diversion, a stereotypical burnout you can have your way with."

Her jaw worked, her eyes flashed exasperation and anger. "Did you even consider what I offered you?"

A slow smile crossed his lips. He reached beneath the comforter to slip two fingers inside her. "You're wet again. That's nice," he whispered, rotating his fingers with delicious deliberation.

From deep in her throat came a sound somewhere between a purr and a groan. Her eyes fluttered closed as her chest moved in time with her quickening breaths. For a moment Greg thought she might give in and let the world fall away. He pursed his lips, raised his brows as his thumb skimmed lightly across her clit.

She gasped. "Damn you. You're changing the subject." She gritted her teeth and clamped a hand around his wrist like it was a lifeline, but didn't pull him out. "You have no insurance, no pension, nothing to fall back on."

"I'm not worried about it. Why are you?"

"Because you live in this godforsaken hole. Because you have no friends. Because you haven't seen your family for eons."

"Again," he said, pushing his fingers deeper, "why do you care?"

"Again," she breathed, as her hand fell away from his wrist, as that rhythm resumed, "I...don't...know."


	4. Too Bright To See

**-4-**

"Too Bright to See" (1983)

The decision was made beneath a white hot light with six hundred people cheering him on. The moment the spotlight hit him, the instant the rest of the guys held back to let him have a solo, he was a goner.

After the show, with the applause still ringing in their ears, a breathless, ecstatic Crandall dragged Greg to the Limerick's bar, bought him one beer after another, told him how much the band needed him, and refused to listen as Greg ran down all the reasons why he couldn't possibly join Dynamite.

Med school, he had to go back to med school, Greg persisted like a drowning man grasping and clawing for a life preserver that bobbed just out of reach.

Crandall told him to give it a year, he could always go back in a year...

...which is when Greg went down for the last time, the life preserver drifting further and further out to sea_._

The tour was getting underway in ten days, which gave Greg time to figure what to take, who to inform, who to leave in the dark...

...and how to tell his parents.

His father was already badgering him. _What the hell did you do all day? Any prospects? Did you look into schools? You have nothing to show me? Nothing...?_

Regardless of how much his dad kept on him, it was his mother he was most concerned with disappointing. At the dinner table, she gazed at him over her water glass. That gaze was knowing in a way only a mother's could be. Intuition took her hand, guided on a course to what was real and true. She knew something was up but Greg couldn't seem to get the words out to confirm her suspicions. He had time. He would tell her later. Averting his eyes, he took the safe route, remaining silent and stoic as he dug into his mashed potatoes.

In the end, it was Crandall who spilled the gasoline and lit the match, blurting the news before Greg had mentally prepared himself to deal with the consequences. Three nights after the Limerick gig, Crandall arrived at Greg's house unannounced. Could he see Greg? Blythe invited him in, informing him Greg had gone to the grocery store for her. _But please sit, Dylan. _She smiled and led him into the kitchen. _He'll be home any minute_. Of course, Crandall took her up on her offer of a slice of fresh baked cherry pie and a tall glass of milk.

By the time Greg arrived home, life as he knew it had toppled from its perch and landed at his feet, as flat and dead as a fish on the sand.

A cowering Crandall sat at the kitchen table, pie crumbs dotting his lips; his plate picked clean. John House paced by the sink, his face turning a deeper shade of red with each precise switch of his heel.

As distressing as this was, it was the sorrowful shake of his mother's head that made Greg want to crawl into a hole as deep as his anger and regret, and die.

_Thanks, Crandall_.

It was a long night. After Crandall made his escape, Greg endured an hour of John's diatribes which mingled with Blythe's quiet laments like a nightmarish duet. "You're giving up a medical career. You're throwing away your chance," Blythe chanted over and over. Maybe if she said the words enough times they would change her only child's mind.

They didn't.

The next morning John burst into Greg's room at five A.M, threw a suitcase at him and told him he had twenty minutes to pack his shit and get out. Unless...unless he had done some serious thinking overnight and realized how brainless and impulsive he was.

Greg was out of the House in twenty-five minutes, his mother's embrace detaining him longer than he or his father would have liked.

The door clicked shut, too loud in the sleepy silence. But nobody heard. Nobody knew. Only the birds chirruped their merry protest. Greg stood dazed and bleary eyed, watching them peck at the wet grass, seeking breakfast. He remembered laying spread eagle on this lawn in the summer, reading "Aesop's Fables" as the sun rose higher toward the noon hour. He could still hear his mother calling him in for lunch...

He shuddered. Hunching his shoulders against the chill, he cursed softly, realizing he had forgotten to pack a jacket. But he wouldn't go back for it.

He couldn't.

--

Greg was beholden to Crandall now, which was not a good thing, even though Crandall didn't seem to care. Crandall was a strange cat; seeming almost pleased about Greg's situation. But Greg was far from pleased. He valued his independence, enjoyed that modicum of freedom living home had afforded him. Now Crandall called the shots. If Greg needed to go into town, Crandall took him. Food? Crandall stocked the fridge. Greg had no choice but to sleep on the sofa in the apartment Crandall shared with his younger brother, Simon. Simon was a quiet kid of nineteen, who fancied himself a writer and was majoring in journalism at Ohio State.

Simon's word processor, books and legal pads were strewn about the dining room table, even when the kid was out. Greg wished Simon would clean up his shit. The tools of academia were reminders of what might have been, as unnerving as the rumble of thunderheads heralding a torrential rain.

But Greg had no say in the matter. He was lucky to have a damn roof over his head.

The cushions of the sofa were too soft, upholstered with some demonic material that caused Greg to fall asleep itchy and awaken with his legs and upper arms feeling like they had been set upon by ants. His sleep was restless, filled with dreams of tornados whipping and winding in the distance, their combined force decimating everything in its path. This new endeavor was like those dark funnels, tantalizing yet fraught with danger and uncertainty.

The days wound down; thoughts of the future became less terrifying and more intriguing and exciting. Crandall had written five new songs. Each night he and Greg would meet the rest of the band at a downtown warehouse that doubled as a rehearsal studio to practice, improvise and improve.

Legend had it that a ghost lived inside the walls of the warehouse's drafty rooms. The thought of some unseen specter watching, listening and judging fascinated Greg. It drove him, made him hungry to impress. He played well, his fingers tripping over the keys of the rehearsal space's weirdly out of tune Baldwin. Had that ghost taken residence inside him? Was it using him as a vessel to imbue the music with a strange, otherworldly rawness and beauty?

How ridiculous. How...interesting.

They took five, sank into the musty smelling leatherette sofa while Crandall played back the reel to reel of the session. Bottles of Bud were in the cooler for the taking, a joint was rolled and passed around.

Greg took a long toke before passing it on. Tilting his head back, he blew a ring of smoke at the high ceiling and giggled.

And suddenly it seemed life couldn't get any better.


	5. Lisa

-5-

"Lisa"

She bought him clothes: a new wardrobe consisting of five dress shirts, three pairs of trousers, and a suit jacket. He would need to look 'presentable' if he was to work as Assistant Supply/Requisitions Manager at Princeton-Plainsboro. The position was new, one she'd had intentions of implementing prior to her involvement with him. Her Supply/Requisitions Manager had asked for an assistant months ago. She had been too busy to accommodate him then, but now had the perfect opportunity to honor his request.

The clothes were purchased at Macy's men's department on her lunch hour. She paid cash in case Charles checked the credit card statements before passing them along to her. He had wanted to hire a full time accountant to handle their finances, a notion she found ludicrous and wasteful. It was easy to balance a checkbook and pay the bills if you didn't obsess over golf tournaments, movie premieres, and trips to California.

Charles worked as an assistant casting director for TV shows and films shot on location in New York City. Twelve years ago, while finishing her internship at Manhattan's Roosevelt Hospital, Lisa was introduced to him at a hospital fundraiser. Charles intrigued her. At the time, he had been working in the promotion's department of ABC. A sharp, good looking guy, he was certainly capable of more than answering phones and pushing paper.

They were two fiercely ambitious people, striving to progress in their chosen fields. Their passion for success drew them together, convinced them to marry. It was fun for awhile. They were carefree, successful, and soon found themselves on the cusp of wealth. Lisa thought she was infertile but two years after they wed, Sammy was born.

Charles's job at ABC led to a position as the assistant casting director at Opus Casting. The firm's main office was in Los Angeles, which forced him to divide his time between both coasts. Bi-monthly red-eye flights to L.A. were not uncommon. Soon he was making more friends in the business, and re-locating to Los Angeles seemed like the next logical step. A standing offer of a promotion was there too. But Lisa had proven herself a top notch administrator at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. When she was offered the position of Dean of Medicine, she couldn't possibly consider moving. This was her dream. Charles was already living his. Whose was more important? This wasn't supposed to be a competition, she told him. Besides, Sammy was doing well in school, making friends, showing an aptitude for music. She didn't want anything to spoil that.

He called her selfish.

To keep the pea_ce, _she emailed her résumé to three teaching hospitals in and around the Los Angeles area, placing a bandage on the slowly festering wound.

It was obvious that a chasm had formed; each argument, disagreement, snide remark sent another chunk of earth flying past their heads, widening the gap between them. The latest fiasco: Sammy was debuting an original composition at his school recital and Charles wasn't willing to forgo a business trip to attend.

"There will be other recitals," Charles told her, packing his bag.

"There will be other business trips," she countered as he walked out the door.

And so it went.

She drove down the exit ramp, the Macy's bags sitting beside her like silent conspirators. Last time she visited the Rest Stop, Greg had refused to give her an answer about the job offer. But it wouldn't be long before he caved. He was smart, stubborn, pigheaded and opinionated, which made reasoning with him a challenge. A certain psychology needed to be implemented. _Make him think it's his idea_, was one of her mother's basic teachings regarding willful men. Greg was too savvy to fall for a principal as simplistic as that. But if she kept on him, eventually...

...he would cave.

_Why do you care?_ Lisa asked herself time and again. On the surface, Greg had nothing to offer except a wonderful respite from the daily grind. She loved his physicality. He took his time, savoring their lovemaking as one might work his way through a sumptuous meal. She assumed his days on the road had taught him the finer points of how to please a woman. But he wouldn't open up about those days, except when it came to the music. Sometimes he would sing to her in bed, gruff old blues songs, below the belt rock and roll. A few tunes were familiar, others totally out in left field. He hardly ever regaled her with the same song twice.

Trust. He told her he had an issue with trust. It wasn't her fault, he assured her. Over the years people had lied to him, taken advantage of him...had done...things...to him.

What sort of things? Lisa wondered.

She was most curious about the accident that crippled him. Again he refused to enlighten her with details, which forced her to make assumptions. From the looks of his scar, which was more a long, deep divot than a gash, it appeared he had lost part of his thigh muscle. Occasionally, he allowed her to massage it, which, along with his meds, seemed to help ease his discomfort.

He didn't have to tell her he was in chronic pain; Lisa could see it in his unwieldy gait, and the way his brow creased with every step. Greg had been taking Vicodin for years and the pills enabled him to function, to think, to live. The source of the opiate was another subject he refused to broach. Concerned his meds were being cut with something th_at _would kill him a lot quicker than his addiction, she offered to prescribe for him. It was one of the only things he ever thanked her for.

Smooth jazz poured through the T-Bird's speakers. This was her music. A little Chris Botti, some Euge Groove. Sweet sax melting over creamy bass and crisp, melodious guitar. It relaxed her, took the edge off, made her feel the world was smooth and shiny and even. But Greg hated her music. The one time she tried using it as a soundtrack to sex, he stopped the proceedings, snagged the disc from the player and tossed it out the window like a discus. Pabulum, he called it. Softness without substance. She was livid at first, but when his hands and mouth continued their slow tour of her terrain, she forgot all about Botti and Euge.

Greg had that effect on her. He could infuriate her with a thoughtless remark then fix it with a caress and wicked smile. She couldn't say the same about her husband. When he drew her ire, the anger stuck for a good long time, regardless of the fervent apologies and make-up sex.

_Why do you care?_ She clung to the thought of Greg's touch, how his singing warmed her, how his expression darkened when she questioned him about Crandall and their touring days. He was a mystery, an enigma, and much too intelligent to be holed up in that miserable...cave (even though the odd, grungy hovel somehow suited him).

Turning off the main thoroughfare, Lisa headed down the side road that would lead her past farms and overgrown woodlands to the Rest Stop. The road was gritty and sparsely traveled, its surface more dirt than asphalt. Houses were few and far between. Most were dilapidated shanties that had long been abandoned.

Six months earlier, she had taken this route to avoid a traffic snarl on the highway. There had been an accident, a bad one and, fortunately, the radio had thrown her a heads up, enabling her to avoid the bedlam and take an alternate route.

Sammy was with her; they were returning home from his piano lesson and he was tired, cranky and thirsty. A few feet ahead, the Rest Stop loomed like an oasis. Its red and yellow neon blinked a weak pronouncement in the bright March afternoon.

She pulled into the parking space next to the sorriest excuse for a picnic area she ha_d _ever seen. Here was a rust speckled table, beneath which paper and cellophane food wrappers were strewn about the dried grass like abandoned party favors. She was reluctant to stay; little things like that put her off. The trashcan by the entrance needed emptying. Soda cups and ice cream wrappers peeked from its half open lid, coffee stained remnants of a newspaper, an empty Pringles can and a smattering of cigarette butts lay forgotten at its base. She would hate to see what the rest room looked like.

And then there was that guy sitting under the awning. His jeans were ripped at the knees, his faded orange t-shirt was torn along the shoulder seam. He held a beat up looking cane across his lap, wore a Gravedigger cap low over his eyes, needed a shave and probably a good wash. He tapped the heel of his sneaker against the dirt, grunting along with the noise pounding from the boom box by his feet.

_This derelict shouldn't be here_. Lisa must have voiced her thoughts, since Sammy was suddenly beaming at her, his smile broad and teasing.

"I'll bet he owns the place," he said. Usually he was quiet but sometimes he floored her a brilliant flash of insight.

"You think?"

His smile faded. "Could we _please _get a drink now."

What if she were offered a second chance, a magical trip back in time. Would she have opted for a do-over? Would she have gunned the engine and high tailed it down the road? Or would she have shaken fate's hand and let it go at that? The fact was, Lisa's curiosity go_t _the better of her that afternoon. The 'derelict' was lean and lanky and not half bad looking. Did he really own the place? Had Sammy's suspicion been on the mark?

_From the mouths of babes..._

The music growling from the boom box speakers caught Sammy's ears and pulled hard. It took him a moment but he got up the nerve, planted himself in front of the guy and put forth his quiet question. That's when the guy's eyes lit up like stars. That was the moment the show began.

After getting Sammy his drink, Lisa sat outside on a wooden orange crate, while Sammy settled by her feet, sipping his Ne-hi. They listened, open mouthed, with eyes as wide as saucers, as the guy gave a colorful musical history lesson. He was amazingly knowledgeable and articulate, fine tuning his facts using the blues tunes crackling from the boom box's speakers for reference. Not only did he explain the meaning of the lyrics, which were garbled and groaned and nearly unintelligible, he threw in some fascinating stories about the artists, as well.

He was like a snake charmer, giving her the eye, drawing her in. In the end, Lisa was as intrigued by this grungy musical history maven as her son was.

So...would she have opted for a do-over?

_Of course not._

He told them his name was Greg, and thanked them for stopping by, a courtesy Lisa doubted he stooped to with any regularity. His initial gruffness clued her in to the fact he was not a people person, and if he never had another customer it would probably be okay. He would simply gather his assets and ride off into the sunset without looking back.

Over the next few days, Lisa discovered she had a problem: she couldn't seem to get Greg out of her head. He would barge in, comandeer her thoughts, usually during the most inappropriate moments. She might be in a staff meeting or having a late dinner with Charles...and he would arrive, unbidden but not totally unwelcome. Her sweet tormentor leaned against the rickety front door of the Rest Stop, his arms folded, head cocked, his lips set in a knowing smirk, as if he were waiting...

The following Tuesday afternoon she returned to the Rest Stop without Sam...which is when the prologue ended and the story began.

#

"What the hell did you do?"

Five Perry Ellis shirts were laid out on his bed. Brown, black, tan, white, gray. All pins, cardboard, cellophane and annoying little plastic clips had been removed with care, placed in a plastic bag and discarded. Now the shirts were neat, crisp looking, and ready for action, like soldiers at morning inspection.

"Lisa...?" The second syllable of her name ascended like one end of a see-saw.

"If you're going to work for me, you have to look the part, Greg."

They stood at the side of his bed as Greg wondered at the display. "You're a sneak. Is this the real you? The plotter, the insidious schemer?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "How can I ever trust you again?"

"What?" Lisa spread her arms, feigning innocence.

While he was locking up the store for the night, Lisa had made her way upstairs. Quickly and quietly she set up what she hoped would be an interesting, if not pleasant, surprise.

"Is this what you do to Charlie, torment him with your sneaky little games?"

She sighed. "I don't play these games with Charlie." She paused, frowned, ran one hand through her hair. "He buys his own clothes."

"Good man."

Lisa sniffed.

"And who said I was going to work for you?"

"Greg..."

"I don't need you playing wifey. Hell, if Charlie can pick out his own clothes so can I."

"Maybe you're right," she said, looking him up and down. "You've done such a fabulous job of it so far."

"I could always find some trailer trash blonde to give me a hand. And don't think I haven't had offers..." He gazed at the shirts, pursed his lips and touched a finger to his chin; suddenly he didn't seem the least bit displeased. "Oooh, I've made you jealous, haven't I?" he asked.

"Oh, terribly. I'll have to race right out to buy peroxide, a pair of hot pink stretch pants, and join a bowling league."

"Good. You do that." He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to untie his sneakers before tossing them onto a pile of books. Flopping onto his pillows, he moved his body sinuously over the shirts that had now become part of the bedding.

Wide-eyed and livid, Lisa grabbed for them. "You want those nice new shirts to look like shit? I'm trying to help you, trying to get you..."

"Get me what?" He was smiling. Goddamn him. He was _smiling._

"...a better life, you idiot." She tugged hard on the sleeve of the brown shirt that was trapped beneath his ass, teetering back on her heels as it gave way. "Don't expect me to iron these for you.." She yanked the gray shirt from beneath his legs, the white one from just below his shoulders. There was no sign of the tan one. With one fierce motion she slung the shirts over her arm.

"You're impossible," she said, her cheeks hot, chest heaving.

He stopped his gyrations, pushed himself up on his pillows to give her an admiring once over. "Very nice."

She scowled at the shirts on her arm, like they were responsible for every ill in the world. Tossing them over her shoulder, she announced, "They're all creased now. I hope you're happy. Damn you."

"Ah, but, Mistress, they're better that way. Gives them that lived in look." His tone took on a gentle, seductive lilt. "Me likee." His eyes narrowed and darkened as he lost his smile, as he beckoned her to join him. "Me likee very much."


	6. Welcome To the Jungle

**-6**-

"Welcome To the Jungle" (1983)

Once upon a time, traveling had been a way of life. Much of Greg's childhood was spent moving from military base to military base, tagging along with his mother while the Colonel traversed the globe, doing his damnedest to keep the commies and gooks at bay. A typical year consisted of three or four months in Japan or Egypt, short stints in Germany and France, then back to the U.S.

His earliest memory was of boarding a plane and being allowed to sit by the window. A book about clouds was in his hands, but the real deal was out _there_. The shapes and the whiteness and the illusion of solidity inspired him to press his face against the plexiglass in awe. Just looking wasn't enough. He wanted to taste clouds, to touch them. What did they feel like? Could he hold them in his hands, use one for a pillow?

Blythe didn't know a cumulus cloud from a cirrus but she helped Greg identify them in his book. By the time they had touched down in Okinawa, he had filed the information in his head, in that good place he put himself when there were no books or windows to keep boredom from creeping in.

Even at three years old he couldn't tolerate the uninteresting stuff life threw at him.

#

Head tilted back, he watched through the sunroof, as the memories tumbled at him, as the cumulus clouds rushed by. He imagined those clouds waving to him like old chums.

_Off to see the world again, eh?_

The band had been on the road for a week, playing gigs, taking a rest break now and then to see the sights. They slept in the van, washed up at RV campsites. It was all so different from his military brat days.

Giggling, Greg closed his eyes but was jolted from his reverie by a sharp jab in the ribs.

"You're holding out, aren't you?"

Wincing and rubbing a palm over his aching side, Greg turned to scowl at Baggins. "What's your problem?"

"Didn't Mommy ever teach you to share, Medicine Man?"

Baggins was under the delusion that Greg had an impressive supply of cannabis on his person at all times. Where he got this notion, Greg couldn't say. It would have been nice but, sadly, it wasn't true. He barely had enough money to keep himself in dollar burgers much less the Acapulco Gold Baggins seemed to think he was holding.

"I'm a-got nothing, Baggins," Greg inclined his head, silently greeting his cloud friends again. "Look out the window, maybe you'll see a bird or, wow, some roadkill, if you're lucky. That should make your day."

"Fuck you."

"Back atcha," Greg flipped him the bird and closed his eyes.

Baggins, whose given name was Arthur Caster-Wallis, was the group's drummer. A chubby kid with corkscrew curls, a permanent scowl and storm-gray eyes, he was known as Baggins because of his almost obsessive adoration of Tolkien's Ring trilogy . He wore t-shirts emblazoned with the legend, "Mordor", and used his spare time to pen fantasy tales based on Tolkien's characters. His notebook was tucked safely away in his pack, furtively brought out and scribbled in when he thought no one was looking.

For some reason, Baggins had taken an intense dislike to Greg. From the first time they rehearsed, animosity flowed from the guy like a toxic tide. Crandall had an inkling it was because Baggins continued to hold a torch for Steve, their keyboard player whom Greg had replaced. This speculation was delicious, absolute fuel for the flame, a neat little piece of weaponry Greg could pull out if needed. (Crandall also had a feeling the threat of AIDS was the reason Steve went on his merry way. The sudden influx of the disease in the gay community put a damper on many a relationship before they even got started).

"You boys play nice now," Crandall called from the driver's seat. Beside him Foster chuckled low, the sound complementing the rumble of the van's motor and the roll and tumble of Elmore James's "Dust My Blues".

Jenks Foster turned to leer at them over his seatback. He was the elder statesman of the group. At forty-one, his close cropped nap was already dusted with silver. He was six foot six, an imposing figure who could play any instrument handed to him. On this tour he was the bass player, which had been his call. Crandall gave him free reign whenever possible. The fact was, Jenks Foster was a real prize: a middle-aged black man who presented an air of true professionalism. His presence gave the group an edge over other young bands just starting out.

If there was trouble brewing, a bar fight or dissension within the ranks, Foster could usually be called upon to intervene, unless he was with a woman. Then it was 'see you later, kid'. Women were his weakness, the reason he was touring with a group of punk kids rather than working at the garage, fixing cars and playing music on the weekends. The money he earned as a mechanic was a whole lot better, but nothing beat being on the road for getting with the ladies. It was his crowning glory, a major perk. Loving 'em and leaving 'em? Hell, it didn't get any better than that.

"He started it," Greg whined. "He always starts it, Daddy."

Baggins's face went from scarlet to purple. "Shut up. Shut the f-"

"Look where we are, kids. Just look," Foster's smile broadened as he waved a hand at the scene outside the window. "This is Vegas and you're legal. How much better can it get for a few hot blooded young studs?"

Greg's gazed out at the Strip. Dusk was settling in and the casino lights were saying ta-ta to the day; the town was waking now, putting on its face: twinkling and blinking, reds and greens, golds and purples, rainbow wheels, dancing dice, Neon Gal lifting her cowboy hat in greeting. Caesar's Palace...Golden Nugget...Sahara...The Sands. He had no spare change, no fun money, but it might be cool to wander through the gambling joints, watch the people, maybe chat up the girls Foster left in his wake.

"Over there." Crandall gestured to a formidable white building overlooking the Strip. It seemed pristine, almost haughty, as if it were too good for the gaudiness cavorting around it like a carnival troupe. "Denny's got a damn suite up there. We're invited for dinner, drinks and to spend the night."

Greg's mouth fell open as he took in the opulence. In his wallet was four hundred ninety seven dollars and fifty two cents, his life's savings. The money was nothing, not a blip on a radar screen. Yet for this one night he would be living life in grand style.

"Hot shit," Baggins slapped his hands against his thighs.

"Thought you said it was a business meeting," Foster said.

Crandall gifted him with a warm smile as he turned the wheel. "I lied."

#

The elevator bank for the super special privileged kids was around the corner from the one reserved for the rabble, the gauche suckers who didn't know class from their ass.

_This is gonna be great._

They stepped inside. Greg's feet sank into the plush grey carpeting. A muzak version of "How Deep Is Your Love" floated from the red velvet walls in greeting. Only Crandall possessed the magic combination of letters and numbers to make the car do his bidding. He typed the code quickly into the gold keypad embedded in the velvet. The doors slid shut and off they went.

Debarking at the top floor, they found themselves in a claustrophobic square of white carpeting and bright white walls. The crystal ceiling lamp tinkled as gently as a wind chime. It all smelled as new as a fresh coat of paint.

They faced an expansive white door, its brass knocker shaped like a serpent wrapping itself around a blood tinged arrow. Something was wrong with that, Greg decided, allowing Crandall and Baggins to edge by him. Foster, too, seemed reluctant to proceed, leaning against the wall and checking his watch.

"How do you know this...Denny guy?" Greg asked.

"He saw us playing a shitty little club on the old strip," Crandall said. "Got us a great gig at The Haven Club at the Sands. Will you stop worrying? The guy's one of the top independent booking agents in this town and real good people, Greg."

"He is also one weird dude," Foster said softly, pondering his fingernails. "So weird I might just stay in a hotel tonight."

"That's a really crappy thing to say, Foster," Baggins lamented as Crandall pressed the bell. "The Syncopated Clock" theme chimed from beyond the door. "You don't know when you got it good, man."

But Foster didn't reply, just kept looking at those well manicured nails. After a moment, he bit his lower lip and hitched his shoulders like he had an itch that wouldn't go away.

A thin slice of fear nicked the wall of Greg's gut. It was just disconcerting enough to make him consider grabbing Foster's arm and dragging him off to the whirligig of Vegas nightlife waiting below...

...which is when the door opened and everything suddenly seemed a little too bright, a bit too sunny. "Boys." The man opening his arms to them was about fifty, very blonde, very tan, very slim. Light glinted off his perfect white teeth. He actually wore an ascot around his neck, a purple _ascot_, the type of accessory Greg thought went out with spats and pork pie hats. But, hey, what the hell did he know?

"Hiya, Denny." Crandall grinned like a chimp inside a barrel of bananas.

"Dylan..." Denny pulled him into a rough hug and slapped him on the back. "How have you been?"

"Good man, real good." He broke the embrace but kept a hand on the older man's shoulder. "You remember Baggins and Jenks?"

"Of course..." Denny's eyes traveled past them and landed on Greg. Those twinkling green eyes held him, calm and still. "But I don't think I know this young man."

"This is Greg House. He's taking Steve's place. Plays piano like a friggin' master."

"Well, we'll certainly need to get a sampling of that later." He reached past Crandall to shake Greg's hand. "I'm Denny Stockholm."

Greg mustered up a barely discernible greeting.

"My wife Martha has a thing for the piano. Wish I could serenade her but unfortunately I have no talent along those lines." His hand gripped Greg's a little tighter. "You'll just have to provide the entertainment for the evening. But that's what you do, isn't it...Greg?"

Narrowing his eyes, Greg pulled his hand away and dug it into his jeans pocket. "Crandall entertains, I play tunes."

Denny giggled and rubbed his hands together with glee. "Delightful. This is going to be fun." He leaned against the door, pushing it open wider. "Please come in. Martha's just setting the table."

Crandall and Baggins followed Denny into the apartment. Greg took one step, placed a hand against the door, staying put for a moment before peering over his shoulder. Foster hadn't moved from his place against the wall. He looked like he might just settle in, spend the evening studying his fingernails and languishing in the silence.

"What's wrong?"

Foster raised his eyes slowly. That gaze was deep and penetrating and did nothing to assuage Greg's gnawing discomfort. "He's wrong. Denny Stockholm. Even the name creeps me out. His wife is no better. Wait'll you meet her."

"I don't have to meet her." Greg tried for an air of nonchalance, which sounded clumsy and forced. He swallowed thickly. "We...we don't have to go in there."

"Yes." Foster breathed a resigned sigh and pushed away from his roost. He clapped Greg on the shoulder and led him toward the door. "If we know what's good for us and for the band, we do."

#

It was...The Jungle Room. Greg had seen pictures of the real thing, and here was an actual re-creation of Elvis Presley's garish comfort zone. He stared, amazed, at the moss-green shag carpeting, the sofa and chairs upholstered in what might have been animal pelt (zebras and lions and leopards...oh,my!). Tall leafy plants surveyed their surroundings from oversized pots; one stood by the brick wall of the fireplace, another leaned over the piano like a shade tree. Birdsong twittered from hidden speakers. Ridiculous. He gaped at Foster, Baggins and Crandall, then turned slowly to catch Denny and Martha Stockholm's beatific grins. Holding hands, the couple swayed as one, so gosh darn pleased with themselves.

Strange.

Dinner had been interesting: it was Ozzie and Harriet without the brood. Or perhaps the four of them made up the brood. Denny was at the head of the table, with Crandall and Baggins seated on his right, Foster and Greg on his left. Martha sat beside Denny...when she sat. Most of her mealtime was spent ladling soup, pouring milk or cutting the meat. She flitted about: the picture perfect fifties housewife. The ends of her strawberry-blonde hair curled into cutesy flips, her white and pink polka dotted dress would have been the height of fashion thirty years ago. And that smile. Always a smile. When she met her husband's eyes, the two nearly swooned over each other. Greg _got_ it, he caught Foster's gist loud and clear. Yeah, they were in the Twilight Zone.

Business was discussed over apple cobbler. Yes, there would be a recording session while they were in town, and yes, Denny had some great West Coast gigs lined up. The details would come later, tomorrow, _when the light of day hits you right between the eyes, _Denny cooed as he winked at Greg. When he wasn't ogling his wife or talking terms with Crandall, his eyes always found Greg.

His attention made Greg itch in all the wrong places. For the first time since John had thrown the suitcase at him, Greg wished he could go home, surrender and apologize, let the old man have his way. Anything was better than enduring Denny's penetrating, needful stare. There was heat in that look, a horrible wave of yearning and desire that made the barely digested roast churn in Greg's gut.

_Predator. _The word swirled through his head, unbidden. He sipped his milk and tried his best to ignore the _predator's_ unabashed passion, the determined set of that mouth.

"Help me out here," Greg hissed to Foster, when Denny had excused himself from the table.

Foster threw him a surreptitious, sympathetic look but could offer no more.

After dinner, they were escorted to the Jungle Room, where Martha assigned their seats, the birdsong accompanying her twittering directives:

_Crandall and Baggins make yourselves comfy on the leopard spotted sofa, and Foster, don't be shy, cozy down into the zebra striped chair, and Greg...Greg you come over here with me. Tha-at's right just sit right here at the grand piano_.

At first he was reluctant, asking if he could beg off. He wanted to shy away from the spotlight, from Denny's fevered gaze. But sitting at the Steinway calmed him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had access to an instrument this fine.

"Before we begin," Denny clapped his hands then gestured lovingly at Martha, "we have a surprise. Martha has concocted some special refreshments for you."

Greg smoothed his fingers over the keys, enjoying the texture, the shine.

"Go ahead, Greg." Suddenly Denny was standing over him. "You're allowed to play."

"I can't."

"And why is that?" Denny's hand was on Greg's shoulder, breath warm and wine scented against his ear.

"You're too damn close to me, that's why."

Denny straightened and took one step back as Greg slid off the bench. He tromped past Foster who stared at him, a mix of awe and respect playing on his features.

Greg's pace quickened, his purposeful treads muffled by the dining room's carpet. He needed a break from these refugees from a John Waters film. Breathless now, he stopped and swore, glowering at the sparkle of the china in the mahogany cabinets, the silver candlesticks polished to an otherworldly brilliance. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breaths short and sharp in his chest. He was fuming and couldn't recall ever being this frightened or angry, not even when his father took him in hand. No matter how unsavory John House's wrath was, at least Greg knew what the outcome would be. Here...with these people, he just wasn't sure.

A hard punch to his shoulder blade caused him to yelp and whirl around.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" Crandall hissed. His face was too close. Greg didn't like that pent up anger trembling just beyond the eyes. With great deliberation, he placed one hand on Crandall's chest and shoved just hard enough to send him stumbling back a step or two.

Crandall grabbed for the wall, halting his backward momentum, then pushed himself forward again. "We've got it made with this guy. _Made._" His lips were thin and paste white, a bluish vein pulsed in his temple. He looked ready to burst. "And you're going to ruin it."

"Denny's nuts. Just like she is. Just like you all are for getting involved with them."

"Let me tell you something, Greg," Crandall began slowly, jabbing a finger into Greg's collarbone. "You don't go along with whatever Denny and Martha have in mind for the evening and I'm fucking leaving you here. You can make your own way home."

The realization hit Greg that this landscape, this gaudy excuse for hearth and home was alien terrain and everyone on it had gone quite mad. It was Alice's tea party and the Cuckoo's nest all rolled up into a pretty party favor just for him.

"Fine." Greg shoved past Crandall, returned to the Jungle Room and seated himself at the piano.

"Everything okay?" Denny asked. Martha stood smiling beside him, wielding a tray of fluted glasses filled with colorful fizzy drinks.

"Glorious," Greg said, meeting Foster's eyes before turning away from everyone and taking solace in the keys.

Drinks were distributed. Greg's was placed gently on a lace doily atop the Steinway. His was amber-gold, bubbling gaily, like a brew or champagne. Yet something was strange about its consistency, like it was Jell-o that had yet to fully solidify.

More strangeness.

Each drink, Denny explained was made especially for the one who was to enjoy it. Baggins's, for example, was dark and fruity, a fact which inspired giggles all around.

Greg's was gold, he went on. _Special and rare_.

"Martha would love if you played us a little "Love Me Tender" after you drink up, Greg," Denny stood over him, demurely swirling his own forest green concoction with a plastic stirrer.

Sure, hell, why not?

_Green, huh? Was Denny an envious prick? A nature boy? _

Surrendering, Greg drank the stuff in one and a half gulps, and was not surprised to find the drink a little sweet, a little tart and gave him a buzz no alcoholic beverage ever had before. It was, Greg decided, as his fingers stumbled over the keys, trying in vain to find the notes he knew were there, chemically enhanced. The room shifted and shimmied. One by one, his brothers in arms slumped over where they sat. Although his coordination had flown, he was sharp as the edge of a blade, alert, aware, his heart thrumming with one purpose...to keeping that funny chemical stuff racing through his veins.

Denny was next to him on the bench, studying his eyes. "You with us, Greg?"

His mouth may have moved. He might have made some kind of thick, garbled response. Maybe.

The hypodermic winked at him. Clear liquid bubbled from its tip, then dripped down its side. The tip touched the crook of his arm, then pushed through. Ah...pinprick of blood, a small price to pay to have the world open up like the tilt-a whirl innards of a kaleidoscope.

He might have giggled. Maybe.

#

Hands...soft...kneading...pressing...caressing...everywhere. It was interesting being this out of his head, leaving it all to someone else. Pleasure was the principle, the main thrust of the conversation.

_(Thrust!)_

He might have giggled.

Lips...moving...tongues...everywhere. It was good...raw...nice. Didn't matter who was at the other end of the breast...or cock... or whatever. _Who...what...where...? _Scents heavy, floral, skin like pink shadows undulating, flanking him...dancing...above...below...in between. The only thing that really mattered was the pleasure... pleasure building up to magnificence...a crescendo...a musical...

...fountain...an abundance of fountains. He was a fountain...he was...sparkling, spinning wheels of lights and

_(thrust)_

... rushing across the sky...a fountain of ...fireworks...building...building..up, up and finally, _finally_...spraying hot, celebratory explosive joy...everywhere.

#

He stared at the redness in the crook of his arm, stared at it in the van as he had stared at it in Denny and Martha's bathroom. In the center of the redness was a tiny hole, a pinprick, really. At one time, it might have bled but now a scab protected it. The troublesome redness surrounded it, and the slightest amount of pressure caused it to pain him...a little.

_Leave it alone, Greg_, he could hear his mother scold gently, _or it won't heal._

He wished he could remember how he had gotten it. Maybe the memory would come later, after the recording session. Maybe.

Crandall said it was a bug bite. Baggins scoffed and said it was a sure sign of AIDS. And Foster told him to just forget about it. That it would go away.

_Someone did something to you. Think about it. Someone did something-_

_Leave it be and it will go away. _His mother chimed in again, offering another dollop of age old advice.

Two of his fingers refused to listen to reason, stubbornly gravitating toward the soreness. They stroked it gingerly, every now and then pressing down so he could feel the ache, so he could know this wasn't his imagination; this was real.

The more he rolled it over in his head, the more distraught he became. But no one cared, not even Foster. He was too busy, either reading "Slaughterhouse Five" or listening to his Jaco Pastorious cassette on his Walkman.

_Someone did something-_

Greg winced, realizing he was pressing too hard. He lifted his fingers, glaring at them like they knew all the answers but weren't telling.

He felt suddenly alone, ostracized. The feeling was inexplicable, yet he found it impossible to shake.

With a slow sullen gesture, he rolled down his sleeve, wondering if he would ever be able to trust anyone again.


	7. Choices

**-7-**

"Choices"

The three shirts were still where Lisa tossed them five days earlier. He had flung the errant tan shirt (that one that had been stuffed under his pillow) over the edge of his headboard. The trousers found a home on the back of a kitchen chair. But he hung the suit jacket in his closet. He liked the jacket, hadn't owned one for years, not since Baggins's funeral.

Why he bothered to look presentable at the celebration of that toad's life was beyond him. They were never civil to each other (except for that one time, which couldn't be helped), but they had been on the road together. Greg figured that meant something. The road changed them, brought them closer, made them blood, even if they were never really friends.

Greg never trusted Baggins, was never able to fully trust Crandall, Foster, or anyone else after what happened at the Stockholm's. Most of those memories were now well concealed behind a soupy mix of cloud and fog. Sometimes his dreams would help him out, throw him a few crumbs: spectral hands moving, caressing him, mouths and tongues moist against his skin, a nip on his shoulder, a touch, slow and sensuous in all the right places. It was horrifying and heavenly at the same time.

_You liked it._

How many time did it happen? He never got over the feeling the couple had played that game with him for years...even after he thought he was done, that he had escaped intact.

_Thanks for playing..._

His dreams assured him he never really escaped them at all.

Twenty five years had past, a quarter century of suspicions, mistrust and loneliness. Now for some crazy reason, the barest sliver of trust was shining through, like a dusty ray of sunlight through the blinds.

It took Lisa to change things: a married woman with a child, a person Greg was sure would eventually realize her monumental error in judgment and take a hike. After all, he was certainly no bargain. Besides, she had a reputation to uphold. Inviting a dodgy scamp like himself to work for her after they had routinely swapped spit and other bodily fluids was either an act of stupidity...or love.

And though Lisa was not stupid, her love was a concept Greg found difficult to fathom. Love required trust, something he had in short supply. Who knew how long that cache might last?

He told her this. She didn't care.

He was too far gone to change. She knew this too and didn't care. _Something is wrong here, She'll wake one morning with his warnings ringing in her ears, as loud and persistent as the chimes of Big Ben. Then, finally, she'll believe him. _

_And go away._

After tossing the four shirts the evil eye, he opted for the most crumpled of the batch - the tan one. Tan was a neutral color, neither here nor there. If limbo had a color, tan would be it. It was a perfect complement to how he felt about today, about the commitment he had made.

Commitment was hardly Greg's forte. He fought against it at every turn, and had mastered the art of reneging on promises, while escaping with his balls intact. Weaseling out of this 'real job' thing had been a major consideration. When sleep abandoned him (as it so often did these days) the idea of flight enticed him. He roamed his four cluttered rooms, stopping to lift the phone and stare at it like it was an alien entity before setting it down again.

Back in the bedroom, he glared at the bed and its rumpled sheets and the pillow next to his that smelled like Lisa, and decided caring was overrated: a Whitman's sampler of cheap, saccharine moments that got you nowhere.

The tan shirt was calling him, the trousers sang a siren song from the kitchen. Only the jacket didn't have to try too hard to win him over. He knew he was done for when he deigned to check his look in the bathroom mirror. Did it matter if his ponytail was brushed or his smile was pleasing to the masses? No. But he made sure they were. No sense riling the mistress on his first day toiling as her serf. However...shaving was out and so was wearing a tie.

_Right! You tell her. _

The miniscule spark of rebellion assured him he was a man who would never dream of selling out.

#

Cadillacs, Volvos, Porsches and SUV's filled the employee parking lot, making his battle scarred Repsol look like a gangrened limb. He sat on the bike, his visor down, observing the parade of doctors, nurses, clerical workers and research assistants as they dashed off to work.

He never dashed; he never _would_ dash. On a normal day he would fall out of bed, take a quick shower, pull on whatever clothes happened to be handy, and make his way with aching slowness down the stairs. The store would open at whatever time pleased him. Now he was forced to follow a set schedule and play by someone else's rules, two facts that would have at one time made him short-tempered and uneasy. Not any more. Some found God. He found discipline.

_You gotta do, what you gotta do._

Pulling the plug on the business had been surprisingly simple. A few phone calls was all it took to stop deliveries of gasoline and sundries. The same calls would start them up again if the need arose. His credit was good, his accounts up to date. A key turned, a sign switched from 'Open' to 'Closed' put the finishing touches on the grand finale. The ease of it made him somewhat morose. This was who he was...or at least had been for the past five years. It shouldn't be this simple to turn it around.

Hell, but it's not like it hadn't happened before.

The working crowd thinned. A few stragglers wandered by. Unlike the clock punchers, these guys were in no rush. Old geezers; they were probably relatives of the half-dead fossils taking up valuable bed space inside.

_Bullshit._

Over there was Lisa's T-Bird, so sleek and black like her _fuck me_ pumps. Once, for fun, they made out in the backseat, fogging up the windows like a couple of horny seventeen year olds. A slow smirk caught Greg by surprise; he was glad to have the visor down, not wanting to be recognized later as the crazy laughing dude from the parking lot...for Lisa's sake, not for his. He could care less what they thought of him.

Still, the _thud, thud, thud_ of his heart made his ribcage shudder and almost succeeded in changing his mind. But he fought the urge to flee, getting off the bike, grabbing his cane from its sheath and tucking his helmet under his arm. He headed toward the entrance, bowing to the irresistible force of the unknown.

Pushing through the door, he breathed in, finding the pine scented disinfectant did a poor job masking the stench of disease and despondency-

-and knew immediately that this was not and never would be his domain.

#

Once upon a time, he heard the calling. He was going to be a doctor, a healer, one who would give health back to those who thought they had lost it for good.

But you have to learn how to do this; earning a medical degree was key. That took time, ambition, brains and a whole lot of money to do right. He would have made the time, put forth the effort. Brains? He was a pretty smart guy. Hell, at his graduation from NYU he had been salutatorian. A bright future might have been in store for him had his brother Michael not decided to get involved with the wrong people, cave to their whims and run off.

Michael's disappearance caused his mother's world to crumble into something dusty, dry and dead. Given a choice, he might have gone the selfish route, applied for that student loan and chased the sheepskin down. But that choice disappeared the same time as his brother. His father was dead; he was all his mother had. Michael was her baby and her baby had broken her heart.

Throwing himself into the search seemed his only option. His customer service job at First Federal was a dead end, his relationship with Astrid, the woman he thought he would marry, was falling apart.

When he quit his job he became a driven man. Finding Michael became his career, his life's work. He filed the missing persons report, placed classified ads for clues, for a sniff of a hint, for anything.

The hunt was engrossing, more challenging than any job he'd had before or since. The closer he got to an answer, the more quickly his pulse raced. Adrenaline flowed like a fountain. For the first time in years he felt truly alive.

Using his savings, he traveled, up and down the eastern seaboard, following leads that proved fruitless, until, Tamla, the Third Avenue prostitute with the blackened eye and skull tattoo on her forearm, led him to a smudge of a grave in Potter's Field.

"It's him," she said, grasping the hundred dollar bill from his hand before walking away.

An exhumation and dental record check proved her right.

Astrid left him. His mother lingered for another year, a paste white shell in a rocking chair in front of the TV. She breathed her last as the local newscast droned on about gas prices and the most recent school shooting.

It was difficult finding ambition again. The calling had dulled to a faint white noise; he found a new job as Supply and Requisitions Manager at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. The position seemed as good as any. Besides, here he could be part of the healthcare community, perhaps unearth his ambition. Maybe. He didn't know.

Five years had flown and he still didn't know.

The hospital was growing, adding new departments, hiring new doctors and fellows every few months. Each department had its own needs when it came to paper, pens, paperclips, rubber bands, scrip pads, and envelopes. It was difficult to predict from one week to the next what to order.

Dr. Cuddy-Haversham accused him of overstocking his department. Glancing around his storeroom, he found it difficult to refute her claim. Cartons of supplies filled the metal shelves that touched the ceiling. He could stock two hospitals with what was here. But wasn't it better to have too much than too little? Not to Cuddy's way of thinking. Her main concerns were budget and cash flow and he was doing nothing to keep them in the black. Sighing, he stared his old pal Dead End right in its cement face and wondered just how much longer he would last here.

Despondency and depression were beginning to settle in again. Maybe it was time to move on, find another dead end job. Even if it had nothing to offer except a meager paycheck, the work would be fresh for awhile.

He leaned forward in his chair, which squealed its complaint like a friend betrayed. Requisition forms littered his desk. Here was one from last week, another from last month. He used to pride himself on his organizational skills; when searching for Michael he had everything under control. When searching for Michael...

The door flew opened. A guy with a helmet tucked under one arm, a backpack over his shoulder and a grizzled, hard look wandered in like he just got off a train. He leaned on his cane, looked around, gave a displeased sniff before finally deigning to set his eyes on the man at the desk.

"You Wilson?" he asked.

He was James, Jimmy or Jim or, on the rare boozy occasion, Jimbo. He had never been _Wilson. _"Who the hell are you?"

"She sent me here. Said I had to make friends and play nice."

"Dr. Cuddy-Haversham sent you?"

"Sometimes I call her Cuddles." The guy swung his pack off his shoulder and dropped it on the desk along with the helmet. "You got a chair? The leg..." He waggled his fingers along his right thigh. "...she not so good."

"Yeah..." Wilson pushed himself away from his desk and stood, unmoving, giving his guest a dour look.

The guy took a step back, then _whacked_ the tip of the cane between his helmet and his pack, sending requisition forms, rubber bands and paper clips flying. "Chop, chop! Times-a-wasting, Wilson. The leg-"

"Yeah, I know. The leg." Wilson disappeared behind cartons of paper marked '20lb / 92 US/Euro Bright'.

"You learn quick," the intruder called. "I like that."

Wilson peered around boxes and shelves, scrounging up a dusty, rust dappled folding chair from behind an economy size crate of toner. He was rushing around, breathless, as if what he was doing was...important. Why? Why was he pandering to this grungy refugee from a soup kitchen? The guy probably stole those nice threads off a clothesline.

Muttering to himself, Wilson wondered whether he should phone Cuddy before doing anything else that might be construed as helping the guy out.

But no. Deep down he had a feeling it would be okay. Maybe the guy was an office supply vendor who was down on his luck. Sure, he was a little strange, somewhat hard to take, but he seemed on the level. _A short chat, then out he goes_. He lifted the chair up and over the crate and carried it to his guest, who was in the middle of a lion-sized yawn.

"Hmmph," the guy groused. "Crappy chair. That the best you can do?"

"For now..." Wilson unfolded the chair and gestured for the guy to sit.

"You're going to have to do a lot better than this if you have any hopes of keeping me happy."

"And why should I care if you're happy?"

The guy eased into the seat, lifted his brows; a corner of his lip curled in malevolent glee. "Keeping your assistant happy is good for productivity. Keep him purring will get him here on time. Keep him pleased and he won't take an overabundance of bathroom breaks-"

Mouth falling opened, Wilson stumbled backward, catching his trouser pocket on the corner of his desk. He sensed a few threads tearing but, right now, it didn't matter. "No way-"

"A good rule of thumb is always be careful what you wish for, Wilson." The guy extended his hand. "I'm Greg House. Never been an Assistant Supply/Requisitions Manager before but-"

"Is this some kind of a joke?" Wilson ignored Greg's hand and reached for the phone instead.

"Go ahead, call her." Greg leaned forward and pulled a small. rectangular box from his pack. With a smirk and a wink, he eased himself back and clicked on the Gameboy, bringing forth a tinny litany of electronic blips and peeps. "I can wait."


	8. Survival of the Fittest

**A/N: **Just a quick note to thank my readers for taking the time to leave such great feedback. I appreciate your interest and your willingness to stick with these long tomes I love to write.

Also, thank you **Betz88 **for your continued encouragement and support.

**-8-**

"Survival Of the Fittest" (1983)

Greg had never been inside a recording studio before, much less worked with a producer who was at the top of his game. But here he was. Here _they_ were, about to lay down another track for what was to be their first set of demos. Jeremy Ives, _the_ Jeremy Ives, the lanky British record producer of some renown, stood behind the glass next to a beaming Crandall, and Wallace, the recording engineer. Hands on hips, Lennon specs in place, Ives lorded over his domain like the god he was.

At the start of the session he announced he would take care of everything associated with this recording, including shop the finished product to the record companies. "Top of the pops," he assured the guys after each 'brilliant' take was put in the can. He had no doubts he would land the group a handsome deal.

Why wouldn't he? He had the contacts and power in the industry to get the job done.

There was something to be said for providence, for being in the right place at the right time. But this whole _'the_ _world just fell in our laps_' thing happened way too fast and too easily for Greg's liking. A scraggly rock-blues band from the midwest didn't suddenly show up and wow a producer of million sellers. Okay, maybe the fairytale scenario would wash in a movie with a tissue thin plot, but real life didn't work that way.

He adjusted his headphones, seating himself at the Baldwin in the corner of the studio. At center stage, Baggins settled in behind his kit, shaking his corkscrew tresses and twirling his sticks like he was friggin' Keith Moon. To his right, Foster stood, playing the familiar bass runs he used to warm up before shows. The low tones rumbled inside Greg's phones, making him yearn to tear them off and stomp out of the studio.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

Every few moments Foster would turn his head toward Greg to offer...what? An apology? A plea for acquiescence? A truce? Greg wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment, not even a half-assed smile. He couldn't.

Whatever success they might have found as a band had been tainted, dragged through the sludge and shit. Crandall, Baggins, Foster. A trio of carrion who thought nothing of feeding on one of their own. They had tossed Greg into the arena as the honey, the catnip, the sweetmeat for the lions. And damn if the rewards weren't coming as hot and strong as Denny and Martha probably did...which was where Greg's memory packed a bag and skipped town.

Of course there was a story to prove the legitimacy of fate's calling. There always was.

Let it be written that by pure coincidence, Jeremy Ives caught Dynamite's gig at The Hole In the Wall club in Hollywood last week. They were third on the bill to Tower of Power, which was a pretty damn exciting coup. Always count on a sated, happy booking agent to get your band a fantastic slot on a hot show.

_Let it be done. _

Ives approached them at the bar after their set, bought one round after another, masterfully stroking their egos before asking if they had representation. Crandall told Ives about the Stockholms, which Greg noticed didn't bring a reaction. The realization hit Greg hard: Ives knew. The fucker knew. And when you already knew the deal, what was there to question?

Crandall explained that Denny and Martha hadn't offered them a contract. So, in essence, the band was free and clear to sign with whomever they pleased. Dynamite was small time. They played clubs and, on rare occasions, casino bars. The group had no illusions of its worth. They were a dime a dozen. Denny and Martha did them a favor by booking them both in Vegas and in L.A.

Ives was silent for a moment, then removed his glasses and chuckled softly, like a hip university professor. They should stay with the Stockholms, he said. Obviously, Denny and Martha had done right by them. It was so difficult finding trustworthy representation in this business. Over his brew, he met Greg's eyes, which is when Greg's curiosity was piqued. _The fucker knew._ Questions cavorted around his tongue like an eager pups.

_Do you know what they did to me, oh, great and powerful Mr. Ives? Hey, if you do, please let me in on it. Everyone else seems to be a party to this mystery. My so-called friends are keeping the secret well. All for the sake of the mighty buck. _

Who knew the sale of a soul had such wide reaching implications?

Ives put on his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose until his eyes disappeared behind the smoky gray lenses again. He downed his Guinness, licked the moisture off his lips, then said he would contact the Stockholms. Together they would draw up a contract and schedule some studio time.

"Call my office, lads. Next week."

He shook Crandall's hand, tucked his business card into Greg's shirt pocket, then breezed out of the club.

Now Crandall and Ives were deep in conversation. Every few moments Wallace would bow his head. The way his shoulders shook told Greg he was laughing. _What was so damn funny? _Greg thought, his fingers vamping on Scott Joplin's _The Entertainer. _

Foster raised his head, his long fingers pausing over the bass strings. He threw Greg a delighted smile, taking Greg's tuneful lightheartedness as a call for a musical playmate. With a hitch of a brow, Foster added a jazzy low end to the ragtime, making the familiar melody sound like a New Orleans funeral march. Baggins got into the act, throwing in a backbeat that transformed the Dixieland stylings into a bombastic rocking free-for-all.

Greg's lips quirked, threatening a grin. The music almost made him forget how furious and miserable he was. If the guys could back him up so solidly here, why not...everywhere? Reluctant to let that feeling slip out of reach, he kept his fingers tripping lightly over the keys, falling into a rush of melody that came from somewhere else...somewhere outside of him, outside of all of them.

In the booth, Crandall and Ives continued conversing; they shook hands. Then, like two gods on the mount, they turned as one to focus their attention on Greg. Had they just made a pact, burned a royal seal on what had been written in someone else's blood?

_The catnip...the sweetmeat._

The thought caused Greg's fingers to go cold and falter on the keys. Swallowing hard, he let his hands drop into his lap. Sweat dotted his temples, a droplet of moisture tickled the hair at the nape of his neck as the music collapsed all around him.

He shouldn't be sweating. The studio was comfortably cool.

"Something wrong, G-Man?" Crandall's voice bleated into his headphones.

_Fuck! Like you care..._

Foster tilted his head, making that face...so concerned yet so disappointed. Hell, there was no remorse there, no apology. Foster played a dirgelike, melancholy riff, then lifted his water bottle to take a swig, glancing at Baggins who was-

-twirling his sticks. With a war whoop, he attacked his snare with a complex paradiddle.

"Something wrong?" Crandall asked again.

Closing one eye, Greg cocked a virtual pistol with his thumb and forefinger, setting his aim on the mount.

_Click...bam!_

Done. He dropped his hand to his side. "If you're finished butt-fucking each other up there, maybe we can get to work."

Crandall deflated before Greg's eyes. He stumbled forward, skin going paste white as his shoulders sagged. Banging a palm against the glass, he sent forth a spray of ripe expletives, glaring at Greg with murderous intent. But Ives stood back, seemingly nonplussed. He folded his arms over his skinny chest; a small, satisfied grin crossed his lips.

"Greg put it quite succinctly, I would say," Ives posh tone seemed out of place in the room that smelled like Chinese take-out and stale cigarettes. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

#

He had no idea where they were heading. One city seemed much like the next, one club the same as another. It was like traveling blind, letting the wind carry him: a wind that stunk of fast food, farts, dirty clothes and cigarettes.

They had put the final touches on the demo, then tooled around California for ten days, following Crandall's carefully mapped out itinerary. Originally the Stockholm's wanted to record the band in Vegas and showcase them in local clubs. But California proved the more lucrative deal.

Greg never questioned the flight plan, never really spoke with any of the group anymore. He just did his job, joining in when it was time to wail and crawling back into his hole when the gig was done.

What would his mother think? Was she worried, wondering where he might be, if he was okay? Probably. Greg hadn't thought about home since leaving on this tour. But suddenly, this evening, his mother crossed his mind.

It would be good to see her now. Right this minute. He suddenly wanted to be sipping coffee across from her at the kitchen table. In the living room, his father would sit, blissfully out of the picture, the TV a murmuring, soothing presence before him.

Mom and Greg's kitchen talks were conspiratorial, sotto voiced affairs, filled with hushed laughter and comfortable reminiscing.

"We always knew you were special." At some point in the conversation Blythe could be counted on to place this pat phrase before him like a slab of warm apple pie.

_"We?" _Greg would respond in his head. The obligatory 'we' his mother felt compelled to use never rang true. His father wasn't part of the equation. In his time, John House had spewed out a passel of colorful words to describe his son. 'Special' was not one of them.

Half asleep, Greg slunk lower in the back seat of the van, wincing as the vehicle rumbled and shook beneath him. In his hands was a dog-eared paperback of Darwin's _Origin Of the Species._ The book was a constant companion he kept tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He started reading it at Hopkins but never found the time to finish. Not that the book was long; he just wanted to savor it, breathe it in, to take his time and really understand the controversial, _exciting_ ideas: natural selection, variation, the struggle for existence, survival of the fittest. All wonderfully subversive, all hitting a little too close to home.

But-

-night had fallen quickly. The only illumination was from the rushing headlights and the occasional moon bright brilliance of a truck stop.

Baggins bought a reading lamp from a CVS store in Burbank. The lamp was small enough to be unobtrusive but bright enough to read by. The toad was asleep, head back, mouth open, snoring along with the Little Walter tune wailing through the speakers. It would be simple for Greg to reach into the toad's pack and use the lamp just long enough to finish the chapter he started reading before darkness fell. But...nah, if the toad woke up and found his lamp in use, a major battle would ensue. Any other night, Greg might have welcomed the altercation. But tonight he was dragging. The road was grinding him down.

In the front seat Foster nodded as he moaned along with the music. Crandall was unusually silent. He was probably worried about the goddamn van. Served him right.

The van needed service. It was due for an oil change. The brake pads needed replacing and the motor had to be checked. Hopefully, Crandall knew a service station with a mechanic on duty. They could stop, eat and take a piss, maybe get some serious sleep.

_As long as it benefits you, G-Man..._

Lately he had become cagey, squirreling away bits of his 'fun money' instead of spending it on beer and one night stands. Sometimes the guys would treat themselves to restaurant food and crash at some generous fan's abode. Greg wanted no part of another stranger's kindness, preferring to wolf down a Big Mac, soap his pits and parts in a public restroom, and pass out in the back of the van.

_Survival of the fittest._

He figured if the van died and left them stranded, he had enough cash to buy a ticket for a train or Greyhound to Ohio. But what would he do when he got there? Grovel to his father to take him back? This repellent scenario convinced him not to rush things. He would wait and hope whatever ailed the vehicle could be put right.

The music made things between Greg and his so-called pals better...temporarily. Their sets were forty minute lowdown, rocking, raucous affairs Greg was sad to see end. Yeah, the music was a balm, it soothed hard feelings and bruised egos. When they played they were best buds, thick as thieves. Brothers.

And then it was over, which was a cue for animosity to shed its cloak and snuggle in between them again...until the next show.

The sound of the instrument cases shifting and sliding in the van's rear storage area unnerved him. Guitar strings vibrated, whining faintly in protest as their wooden bodies were battered about. Greg sympathized, knowing exactly how they felt.

They should have stopped somewhere by now. His head felt muddy, his eyelids heavy with half-sleep. His watch had died somewhere back in Salinas. What time was it? His stomach groaned. They hadn't stopped. Should have stopped for dinner, a pee break. Right. Right?

But, no. What if...? A troublesome, niggling thought caused Greg's gut to clench. He pushed himself upright in his seat; the road signs told him they were on the interstate. Why the interstate? They could have stopped somewhere miles back; how many service stations had they already passed?

"Hey." Greg's heart pounded, moving the adrenaline along at a speed that would have made Dale Earnhardt proud. "What's the plan, Crandall?"

Crandall met his eyes in the mirror and scowled. "What the fuck do you care, G-Man? Go back to sleep."

"Foster?"

"Hmmm, I think you'd best tell him, Dylan." Foster tapped two fingers against Crandall's seatback.

"You think?" Crandall smiled. Greg could see the road lights shimmer in his eyes.

"Yes, Dylan," Foster replied. "Tell him."

Crandall heaved a world weary sigh. "If this heap holds out, we should be in Vegas in an hour."

"Why the hell...?" Greg swallowed against the balloon of fear expanding in his chest. "You could have gotten the van fixed-"

"Denny's paying for the repairs," Crandall explained. "Anything that needs to be done, he's agreed to foot the bill and put us up until we're ready to roll again."

Greg sank back in his seat.

"That answer your question?"

His lips were dry, his throat a desert. He felt like a prisoner being carted off to the big house.

"Yeah," he croaked, watching the traffic fly by. "I guess it does."


	9. Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself

**-9-**

"Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself"

No. This sure as hell was _not _his domain. People here were too needy, too dependent on others. Granted, it was a hospital and the whole point of being in a hospital was to get well. And, yeah, you did need doctors for that. Still, it was hard to shake the notion that the key to survival was to depend on yourself. This had been a hard lesson to learn, much too costly to throw down the trash chute.

But the place was...interesting. Certain parts of it were just aching to be messed with.

The clinic's waiting area, for example, was loaded with potential. It was chock full of sorry cases, a veritable smorgasbord of gloom and doom. Something could be made of this, he decided, something unique and fun and wicked. But he had to be careful. Didn't want to rile the mistress. So after taking a coffee break to run an assortment of ideas by himself, Greg devised a special secret game called Guess the Malady. It was a wonderful respite from forms and phone calls and straightening out Wilson's mess.

The game was simple. Round One: don a lab coat, pluck a clipboard from Wilson's desk and pay a visit to the clinic patients. Round Two: make your rounds, list the symptoms of every sorry assed, twitching, itching, burning, aching loser in the waiting room, inform each one that he or she is next to see the doctor, then make your escape (ditching the lab coat in a broom closet).

What fun.

Of course both he and Wilson caught hell from Lisa. She descended from her lair at the end of the day, bursting in on them as they were leaving, reprimanding the two of them, like the stern boss lady she was. But her anger didn't last. Greg knew exactly what it took to smooth her over.

Late that night, after Lisa had left his bed, and the clamor and ruckus of the day had faded to an amusing memory, he sat alone in his room. The window was half open; the autumn air was crisp and fragrant with pine and woodsmoke. It revitalized him.

With his medical books and clinic notes spread before him on the comforter, he wondered if he had what it took. Could he make a few educated guesses as to what ailed some of those waiting room denizens? Could he do a differential in his head...

...just for shits and giggles?

Somehow he knew he could. Yes, he was jaded and suspicious and had only good leg. But he could do this job. The thought of missed opportunity brought a chill with it. With a grunt, he kicked the papers off the bed, then slammed the window shut.

#

"You could do it," Wilson told him as they entered the cafeteria the following afternoon.

"No," Greg grabbed a tray and finagled his way ahead of Wilson in line. "I'm too old. Like a worn out strip of leather. Tough but not good for much."

"You _could._"

Wilson was a decent guy but he was annoying when he was persistent, which was most of the time.

"I messed up, went right instead of left. Can't go back again." Greg grabbed a bag of chips, ordered a burger and fries from the lunch lady (who had nice boobs and wouldn't be half bad looking if she got her teeth fixed). Moving along, he snagged a package of Ho-Ho's and a can of orange soda from the cooler next to the apples and bananas.

"You make one wrong turn and think you can't fix it?" Wilson chose a carton of milk, a stuffed pepper, and a green salad. His lunch looked as sumptuous as the plastic tray beneath it.

"You should talk."

"I don't consider trying to find my brother a wrong turn, You had a choice. I didn't"

They stepped up to the cash register. "We're together." Greg indicated the two trays with a quirk of his chin.

Surprised, Wilson raised a brow but said nothing.

"Fifteen seventy one," the cashier told him. Her name tag read Olga. She had spiky yellow hair and looked like a Swedish wrestling champ.

"Want some candy?" Greg asked Wilson, wagging a finger at the rack of impulse buy sweets.

"No, thanks."

With a shrug, Greg grabbed an Almond Joy bar and dropped it on his tray.

"Sixteen fifty," Olga announced.

"Hike." Greg snickered. Olga didn't. Greg lifted his tray with one hand. With the other he planted his cane before him and set off toward an empty table.

"Hey!" Wilson whined.

Conversations lagged, heads were raised. Greg smirked, setting his tray on the sun drenched table by the picture window. He sat, took a huge bite of his burger, and kept his eyes on Wilson. You couldn't beat the floor show. Muttering something that could not have been anywhere near nice, Wilson wrenched his wallet from his back trouser pocket and paid the brutish, unsmiling Olga.

Greg took a break from his food to snort out a laugh.

"Do you make a habit of sticking your supervisor with the lunch tab?" Wilson banged his tray on the table, causing the pepper on his plate to topple over. His face was an interesting shade of crimson, those eyes, angry brown slits.

"Itenumpf," Greg mumbled through another mouth of food.

Wilson yanked the chair from under the table and sat. "Chew your food."

After a swig of soda, Greg lifted a fry and aimed it at his lunch companion. "Lighten up."

"Who _does_ that? Who sticks his boss with the lunch tab?" Shaking his head, Wilson used his fork and knife to cut into his pepper.

"You owe me. You _need _ me." Greg popped the fry into his mouth, chewed it with gusto. "Face it, your department is looking a whole lot better," He hitched a brow and leaned forward. "now that I'm around."

Wilson grumbled, gathering pieces of pepper and stuffing on his fork.

"It's okay," Greg continued, never losing that smile. "You can commend me to the mistress later."

Greg had spent the week taking stock of Wilson's inventory, noting which items had not been utilized within the past six months. On a legal pad he figured quantities, which office supplies they actually, positively needed to stock. He then passed the data along to Wilson, telling him to call the vendors and get return authorizations for the stuff that had been collecting dust.

Wilson fretted over the list for a few minutes, then sheepishly admitted he didn't know how to get a return authorization since...he had never returned anything.

_"_In the five years you've been here, you never...?"

Wilson's face paled, his lips twitched a little...

...which is when Greg grabbed the list of vendors, settled himself behind Wilson's desk and got the job done.

"You're just lucky I told Cuddles the return was your idea. " Greg tore the wrapper off his Almond Joy bar. "She was very pleased. Ordered you a gold star, an employee of the month plaque and everything."

"Don't..." Wilson raised a hand, his chin jutting out as he attempted to keep his temper in check. "Don't call the Dean of Medicine 'Cuddles'."

"Why not?" Breaking the end off one half of the Almond Joy revealed coconut and...an almond. Greg studied the combo for a moment before popping the thing into his mouth. "It's not as if I'm calling her Wildebeest," he said between chews.

"Greg..."

"Or Sheena, Queen of the Amazon."

"...someone will hear you."

He swallowed the chocolate while wiping his hands on his napkin. "And that bothers you."

"Well...," Wilson began with an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders. "yes. It does."

"Why?"

"It's...just not right," Wilson sputtered, swirling the tines of his fork in his stuffing crumbs. "People take offense easily in a place like this."

Greg's smile dimmed. "People come here because they're sick. Sometimes they die here. If you can't find a space between the cracks to laugh, why bother getting out of bed in the morning?" He paused to gaze around the room, his heartbeat suddenly accelerating, hammering a tattoo against his ribs. "You've got to laugh, Jimmy. You've also got to be a selfish prick. Do things for _Wilson. _Don't worry that oooh, something's not politically correct or your idea is subversive or the Dean of Medicine's going to find out you called her a slut. Screw that and screw her if she can't take a joke."

Wilson rubbed his brow and took a sip of milk. When he spoke again his words were hushed and restrained. "Is that why you wear an earring and a ponytail and tool around on a beat up old Repsol?

Greg narrowed his eyes at the unexpected question. "If you were curious, you could have asked me yesterday or last week."

"You don't just ask someone why they look a certain way..."

"Sure you do," Greg said. "But I don't have to ask you why you wear a crisp shirt and a pocket protector and pants with creases sharp enough to cut glass. You get your clothes professionally dry cleaned. It costs you a fortune but you do it to impress, you do it because you worry what people think, every damn minute of your life."

With an exasperated sigh, Wilson checked his watch. "We should get back-"

"I look this way because once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, I used to play in a band." Greg said. "Which is not a valid reason or a sensible excuse. It's just...why...I'm comfortable looking like I do."

"I don't know that much about music. What band...?"

"Dylan Crandall and Dynamite," he muttered, eyeing a bit of ketchup soaked meat on the edge of his plate. The thought of the band sent an icy chill through him. He didn't like talking about Crandall or the music or anything related to those days. So why the hell did he bring it up?

"We made a record," he continued slowly, his mouth heading wherever it damn well pleased. "Had a hit called "Do What You Do." It went to fifty-seven on the Billboard chart."

"Sorry." Wilson shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Why would it? It's ancient history." Greg crushed his candy wrapper in his fist and tossed it on the tray. "The band is why I'm working as an Assistant Requisitions Manager and not playing doctor. The band is why my leg is as useful as an ice pick in the Sahara.

Wilson's eyes lit up with that stupid optimistic gleam Greg noticed too many times over the past week. "You could do it."

Greg threw a salt packet at him, then tossed the Almond Joy wrapper as an afterthought.

"Shut up."

#

Greg decided they would take a walk around the hospital after lunch. Wilson knew there was no sense trying to convince him there was work to do, requisitions to fill.

_That_, he was informed, was boring.

When Greg got something in his head, it was better just to follow along, no questions asked. As Wilson discovered early on, there was always a method to the guy's madness.

Greg limped along, at times more quickly than Wilson could walk, while tossing back Vicodin like they were Tic-tacs. Once and only once did Wilson broach the fact that downing those things like candy was...bad. Couldn't an addiction inevitably be more troublesome and deadly than the pain in his leg?

For his trouble Wilson received a pointed glare coupled with five minutes of stony silence. That was the end of that.

"Where are we going?" Wilson asked, traipsing after Greg into the elevator. Thankfully, the only other passengers were a somber man with a face like a turtle, and a young nurse with smiling brown eyes. Perhaps the short ride would be uneventful.

"Sixth floor. We'll start in Diagnostics and work our way down."

"Start...what?" Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. Perhaps it was better just to steel himself and hope for the best.

The elevator stopped at three, letting off the mismatched pair, leaving Wilson and Greg to enjoy the rest of the ride on their own.

"Loss prevention. Let's just see how wasteful and careless these 'health professionals' really are with their supplies."

Suddenly the walls of the elevator seemed to push in closer...and closer. Wilson's chest tightened. If he spent enough time with this guy, the big one might not be too far away. "No, Greg...is this really nec-"

The doors slid open; Greg was already halfway down the corridor before Wilson caught up with him. "This isn't necessary."

"Sure it is."

As they rounded the corner, Wilson cringed, certain that Greg was about to barge into Diagnostics while a differential was in progress. It would guarantee them a solid reprimand from 'the mistress' along with having their heads handed to them. Maybe that was Greg's plan...

...or...maybe not.

Greg stopped and peered through the expansive window of the office. The vertical blinds were half open, revealing the team: Drs. Chase, Foreman and Cameron, seated at the conference table. The table was littered with coffee cups, legal pads, pens and markers. Rubber bands, paper clips and file folders added a sparse top layer to the landscape. It looked like harvest time on Beautiful Katamari.

"A mess is a mess is a mess," muttered Greg, pressing a palm against the glass.

An intense differential was in progress. Every now and then one of the team would toss out an idea, lifting a pen toward the hodgepodge of symptoms scrawled across the whiteboard. Leading the soiree was Dr. Mercato, head of Diagnostics. His sand colored hair was cropped close and neat. He held himself like a member of royalty, his back ramrod straight, chin square, eyes bland, humorless and condescending. Pacing before the white board, he wielded his dri-mark like a saber, jabbing it at each member of his team as he orated.

"Doesn't take himself _too_ seriously, does he?"

"Mercato's thinks he's breathing rarified air," Wilson said. "His team does the work, while he gets the glory. I guess the main thing is that the work gets done but-Greg...Greg?"

The hand against the window slowly morphed into a fist. It pounded the glass once...twice, causing the chatter inside the room to die away. Heads turned. Mercato glared.

"Don't do that." Wilson hissed through his teeth, clamping a hand around Greg's wrist.

"Guy's a bottom feeder."

"Let's go, Greg."

Whipping his hand away, Greg shook his head. "Nope. Don't think so. The place needs a clean up."

"We have janitors for that."

To Wilson's horror, Greg pushed the door open and entered the room, affecting an odd, swaying swagger as he approached the table. The team sat open mouthed, transfixed, waiting to see how this odd entity might proceed.

"Can I help you?" Mercato demanded, tapping the dri-mark against the whiteboard in irritation.

"Halloo. I'm Greg House, Assistant Requisitions Manager. I don't wish to interrupt." Greg's smile oozed silky charm, his gaze washing over the trio at the table. He paused to wink at Cameron before shifting his attention to Mercato. "Did I interrupt?"

"Of course you did."

"They don't look too upset about it." Greg jabbed a thumb at the team, then set his sights on Foreman. "Well, homeboy there looks a little miffed. Left your blade in your other pants, I hope."

Foreman replied with an uncomfortable snort.

Wilson set a hand on Greg's shoulder. "We were just leaving. Right, Greg?"

"Are you kidding? I am here for a reason, a noble cause." Greg waved his cane at the table, missing Chase's head by inches. "This is why no one gets raises, why budgets are cut, why babies are starving in China."

Mercato threw the dri-mark at the whiteboard. It _clanked _off the edge and dive bombed to the carpet. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am the advocate for the ones with no voice, the errant pens, the tossed paperclips, the abandoned, capless Sharpies. All so important, all so misused." Greg brushed past Wilson and found a wastebasket, which he unceremoniously upended. Bits of confetti-like paper, three coffee filters and a gum wrapper floated down to join Mercato's dri-mark.

Mercato growled, "I'm calling security."

"Oh, leave him alone." Cameron scrutinized Greg like he was a new strain of diphtheria. "I really want to hear how we've caused children to starve and budgets to be cut."

"Shameful. Absolutely appalling." Shaking his head, Greg handed Wilson his cane, then made his way around the table. He was on a mission, tossing legal pads, pens, rubber bands, erasers and anything else that might have been requisitioned into the wastebasket.

"What is this supposed to prove?" Mercato asked.

"It proves you need to run a tighter ship. It also proves how wasteful you are, how much of the hospital's money could be saved if you asked for exactly what you needed."

Silence reigned, not even King Mercato found a way to refute this logic; the only sound was Greg's loping, shuffling steps and more stuff being chucked into the can.

When he was done, the wastebasket was filled to overflowing; three pens, three pads and a stapler remained on the table amongst the empty coffee cups and crumpled napkins.

"Wilson, take the slop bucket, bring it down to the office and empty it, then meet me in radiology..." Greg swapped Wilson the wastebasket for his cane. "...with the empty can."

Greg's smile widened; his eyes twinkled like newly set jewels.

"We're going to need it again."


	10. Sustenance and Sanctuary

**-10-**

"Sustenance and Sanctuary"

Waking up was anything but fun. His neck hurt, his mouth tasted like a bear shat on his uvula, and he stank.

What else was new?

Well, the windshield of the van was streaked with road grime, and the Nevada morning stabbed his eyes with needle sharp tapers of sunlight. He winced and groaned. _Oh, happy day._ A billboard seemed to float above the strip like a holy scripture, informing him that steak and eggs were only ninety-nine cents at Brisco's. _Oh, yeah. _What could be better than a plate of steak and eggs doused with pepper, salt, fried onions and ketchup? He could almost taste its salty sweetness, its grease drenched goodness, His mouth watered as he imagined the manna of the gods slip sliding down his gullet to warm his innards.

A purr started deep inside his chest before rising languidly to his throat..._mmm, yeah_.

Where was Brisco's? Greg had no idea. But he would sure as hell find out. Yes, now he was more than inspired. Suddenly he was fucking ravenous.

Pushing himself up from his uncomfortable slouch, he blinked at the cars rushing by and the odd array of passersby. Across the street an old man peered into the tinted window of an adult bookstore. He wore plaid golf pants and a windbreaker that hung almost to his knees. _Better to hide the pup tent, me bucko?_ Behind him, two middle-aged couples toted cameras and canvas bags, giggling like teenagers as they strolled along. _ Mugger bait supreme._ Bringing up the rear was a girl in a pink pussycat t-shirt writhing against a swarthy lothario. _Around the world for fifty bucks._

Greg watched the show for a few moments, making a concerted effort to ignore his own sour stench. One hand scrabbled beneath his seat, his fingers brushing the buckle of his backpack. Good. His stuff was still there. Traveling with his sketchy bandmates made him wary. He couldn't be certain of anything anymore.

In his pack were a fresh bar of soap, toothpaste, a folding toothbrush, plastic razor, t-shirt and briefs. If he learned two things on this journey they were to:

**1)** be prepared

**2) **take absolutely nothing for granted.

Last night, Crandall drove the wheezing, rattling van into town. It chugged and hitched its way down the strip, barely making it into the Stockholm's parking lot before it sputtered and died.

_Providence can be a cool old gal. If she's on your side._

Old pal relief linked arms with trepidation to do some high kicks. Regardless of anything else, being stuck here in 'paradise' aced being stranded miles out of town on a desert highway. Greg's thoughts whirled light and free, like spun sugar on a paper cone. He had time to think ahead, plan ahead.

_But, hey, what will you do when they want you to join them in that elevator, to take that trip to Denny's heavenly hell...?_

_Stay put, _he told himself. _Just stay put._

Crandall, Foster and Baggins immediately exited the van and began unloading the gear. They set the guitar cases on the asphalt before starting on Baggins's kit.

Greg didn't move, and didn't intend to. He had been more than happy just to sit and watch as the others toiled away. A heaviness in his bladder inspired him to mull over his restroom situation. The choices were infinite; any of the nearby casinos would do.

"Hey, lazy ass. Fuck you," Baggins shouted as he hauled a black tom-tom case from the back of the van.

"Love you too," Greg cooed, his tone as sticky-sweet as maple syrup.

Crandall approached, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Be nice if you could help us instead of sitting on your butt."

"Be nice if you hadn't sold me out."

With an exasperated sigh, Crandall hunkered down so he was eye level with Greg. "I know you have some sort of thing up your ass about Denny." His voice was soft, gentle, as if he were speaking to a troubled child. "That's your problem. He's done nothing but right by all of us."

Did Denny have Crandall by the balls or did Crandall actually believed the drivel he was spewing?

"Regardless of the fact you think you were wronged, you are still part of this group," Crandall continued. "And if you want to remain a part of this group, you'll get out here and help us move this gear."

"Sorry," Greg said. "Just not feeling it tonight, Crandall." He sank back into his seat. "Don't wait up. I'll sleep right here."

Crandall moved in closer, his tone ominous: a whisper. "I'll leave you here, Greg, I swear I will. Denny could find us another keyboard player in a day."

"Oh, Crandall, Crandall, Crandall." With a cool laugh, Greg shook his head and scratched a thumbnail over the worn knee of his jeans. "Denny wouldn't do that and you know it. So don't throw empty threats at me."

Crandall's weariness was palpable; his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it. He rubbed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his scraggly, unwashed mop of hair. He had driven a long way, now was forced to deal with petulance. Greg wondered what was going through that head. Probably a meaty combo of worry and what sorry excuse he might offer their benefactors. Surely Denny and Martha would not be pleased to find the object of their odd, intense interest was a no-show.

_Power was a wondrous thing._

Crandall rose, turned on his heel and walked toward Foster and Baggins who were securing the first shot of gear onto the handtruck. There were more cases in the back of the van, which meant an additional round of hauling and transporting was in order. The rest of the equipment had to be moved upstairs tonight but none of this concerned Greg. Why should it? The guys didn't care about his plight, why should he give a shit about theirs? He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

"Hey, G-Man."

_Whap! _He jolted upright, startled by a sharp rap against the van's roof.

This time it was Foster's turn to poke his head inside the window. "What are you doing, man?"

"I was just thinking about where the best place on the strip might be to take a leak and get a beer." He scratched his stubble. "Any ideas?"

Foster's gaze was deep, dark and steady. "Come on," he said with a sly grin. "Help us bring this stuff upstairs. We'll have some food, shoot the shit, get a good night's sleep."

It sounded good, absolutely wonderful. He couldn't deny wanting to surrender...to just...go.

"No, thanks. Send my regards to the folks."

"You know, Greg, if you leave the van, you could find it locked when you get back. It's important to secure stuff in a town like this." Foster raised a brow. "Never know who might come along to rip you off."

_Stay put. Just stay put._

"Guess I'll stay put. Thanks for your concern."

"Gonna be burstin' at the seams, son." Foster shook his head, reeled toward the back of the van and slammed the hatch shut.

Greg did sneak out. Later...much later, when the sodium arc lamps of the parking lot didn't seem nearly as bright. Running...quickly, furtively toward the building, he lucked out, found a dark alley where the dumpsters lived, and pissed a torrent against the wall. Sagging with relief, he gave himself a minute, leaned against the wall before propelling himself again...across the street. Into a bar. Music, smoke drifting over him, through him, like a convention of ghosts. Someone smiled. A woman's hand lit on his shoulder. Her lips were cherries. Three cherries in a row. Someone handed him a beer. A slot machine paid off, a guy yelped with orgasmic glee. _Satisfaction, that's the key_. Greg sipped his brew, keeping his eyes on the van across the street. The cherry lipped woman touched his thigh. Might be fun...no...not tonight.

_Stay put!_

Now the memory of Cherry Lips spiraled away like water down the drain. His thoughts turned to Brisco's again, steak and eggs, a scrub up in a sink. If he was going, now was the time. Crandall or Foster would be by soon to bring the van to a mechanic of Denny's choosing. Greg didn't want to be here when they arrived. Denny might be with them. The predator would definitely have the home advantage, cooing and smiling, enticing him with the promise of lovely cool sheets and soft, fragrant pillows. No, right now Greg didn't want to take the chance of seeing him or any of them. He was too vulnerable, too willing to opt for comfort over personal safety.

He rubbed his brow, glowered at the sun and bit his lip. He was not in a good place at all.

#

Greg never did find Brisco's. After wandering around for twenty minutes, he stumbled into the Silver Bucket Casino, one block from where he left the van. It seemed cheap and decent, offering a five dollar All-You-Can-Eat buffet breakfast, Keno play at each table and some unfortunate someone's ten dollar chip under his seat. He took all this as a collective sign that better times might be coming.

Before sustenance commenced, he made a swift path to the men's room. It boasted three urinals, three stalls and stank like a piss drenched pine forest. Damp toilet paper was strewn here and there like remnants of Mischief Night. He stepped over them on his way to the paper towel dispenser on the wall. Grabbing handfuls of towels and wetting them down in the sink made him feel almost human again. His bar of soap and clean underwear were waiting patiently in his pack. Soon he would be able to scrub away the top layer of grime that had become his second skin over the past few days. But he would need more than soap and water to rid himself of the toxicity living deep inside his pores. This would be something to work on, a new exciting project. He mulled it over, retiring behind a stall door and flipping the lock shut.

#

For the third time that hour, Greg piled his plate high with sunny scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, lightly buttered toast, purple grapes, sausage patties, silver dollar pancakes, and scads of butter and jelly. He couldn't seem to get enough. The ten dollar chip seemed to radiate heat against his hip. For the first time since making the Stockholm's acquaintance he felt good; he felt hopeful, like he had driven through a war zone and made it out unscathed.

_Yeah, except for those troublesome scars that don't show._

For now he felt better. If he let himself, he could even forget why he was here. He could drift through the day worry free and not consider the fact that night would eventually fall. He had no idea where he might do when nature forced her whim upon the world and took the sun away. But...no problemo. He had hours...eons before that happened.

He rose from his seat, bussed his tray, then let his hand find the round protuberance in his pocket. The chip. His talisman.

_Oooh, maybe it possessed power to ward off evil. You've felt so much better since you found it. Or maybe...it found you. Ever think of that? Maybe it found you..._

Strolling from the brightly lit cafeteria into the cooler semi-darkness of the casino gave him a warm feeling. He could be anonymous here, a proverbial lost soul blending with the scenery. The long green gaming tables and the silvery shimmering slots would hide him. As long as he kept the chip close he was one with this world.

He didn't want to play; his restlessness could morph into obsessiveness if he wasn't careful. But he liked the slots, the feel of cool metal against his fingers as he brushed by, the smooth silent roll of the wheels, the sweet clinking wash of coins as they clattered into the hopper. And the music; there was always music: a cacophony of humming, ringing melody that played in the background like Muzak from some alien world.

It wasn't real. Nothing was real. There were no clocks, no windows. Maybe he had tumbled down the rabbit hole into a town called Limbo. Stay here long enough and you're in like Flint, a creature of eternity. Buffets, the spin of the wheel, the toss of the dice, thick carpet, a rum and coke. Not a bad place to spend the afterlife.

_But you're not dead._

No...just hiding. On the run from-

He saw them then, Foster and two women standing beneath the Progressive Slots tally board; the promised jackpot climbing obscenely higher as each second passed. But Greg wanted no part of it; his bubble had just burst; in his pocket, his talisman was now as cold as a useless chip of lead. It hadn't saved him. Nothing could.

Leaving the premises might be a good idea. Yes. It would be easy to melt into the crowd. He swallowed hard, sitting hunched behind a slot machine with the unfortunate name of Hula Hula Moola. Above the machine, an animated babe in a grass skirt rolled her hips enticingly. A diamond, a pineapple, and a single bar stood fast on the game's center line, the result of the former patron's unlucky 'one last spin'.

_Loser!_

He glanced at the nearest exit but didn't go for it. For some reason he felt compelled to stick around and check out Foster's progress. His bandmate looked morose, distracted, even though he seemed to have charmed the older, skinny legs 'n' all gal. She was oh, so slinky in those snakeskin pants and burnt orange halter top. Foster's arm fit comfortably around her waist as she leaned into the curve of his hip. _Did they have a history? _Greg wondered. Even if it was a five minute quickie, they had most likely done the deed.

It was the other woman, the tearful younger one with the coffee and cream colored skin, who had probably put a damper on this tender moment.

_Oh, dear, what could the matter be? Do you even want to know?_

The back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Greg's attention shifted to a guy with a thick neck and slick black hair circling Hula Hula Moola like a piranha waiting to strike. Casino security? Mafioso for hire? Probably had a name like Ned or Sal or Vinnie the Dude, spent his days breaking kneecaps, when he wasn't having a grand old time here.

_But hell, you're a mess. You look like the typical loser on the run. Can't blame the guy for tossing you the evil eye. _

Greg skulked off his perch and lumbered down the aisle. The guy continued to track him; Greg could feel that malevolent heat against the nape of his neck. Moving through the crowd, he passed the crapshooters, the blackjack players, the card counters, the lucky, the shit out of luck. Really, he didn't want to go where his feet were leading him. Perhaps he could take control, turn down the next aisle, sneak past the roulette table and duck out without being seen.

"Hey!"

No. Providence had turned its back on him.

"Greg."

Pressing his lips together, he grasped the back of a chair by a vacant blackjack table and stared at a point just over Foster's shoulder.

"Hey, man, I'm really sorry about how things turned out," Foster said.

"No, you're not."

"Think what you want." Acid seeped into that gentle tone. "But, you know, things aren't great for any of us."

"How's that?" Greg tugged on his earlobe, "I don't think I heard you right, ma-an."

"Broken van, remember? We had to cancel a couple of gigs."

"Nobody tells me nothin' about the gigs." Greg threw him a sour grin.

"Well, I'm telling you," Foster continued. "We're sharing the Stockholm's place with these ladies." He took two steps forward and leaned in to whisper. "Call themselves Windsong, a new lounge act Denny handles. The sharp dressed one is Marietta, the one making with the waterworks is Tessa."

"Have fun." Greg made a move to snake around Foster but the older man blocked his way.

"Hear me out." Foster pressed a hand against Greg's chest.

Vinny the Dude had returned. He stood against the wall, a few feet away, hands clasped before him as he continued to stare down his mark.

"Make it quick," Greg hissed.

A smile scurried across Foster's lips. "Marietta wants to spend the day with me. Alone."

"Be gentle. It could be her first time." Greg's eyes flicked toward the exit, then back to Foster."

"But Tessa's having a problem. It's her first time in Vegas. She's nervous, plus she doesn't like the Stockholms. Says they creep her out. I can see her point, but she's taking it...almost as far as you do." Foster and Greg's eyes widened simultaneously, like a big old cartoon lightbulb flicked on above their heads. It should have been funny. But it wasn't.

"You want a date?" Foster went on. "She's funny and cute...when she's not crying."

"You just want to be alone with Sheena the Jungle Girl."

"Something wrong with that?"

"No."

Vinnie the Dude's stare just wouldn't quit. The guy was onto him. He knew every sin, every bit of black-hearted thought that ever entered Greg's head. That's why Vinnie the Dude was employed here at the Silver Bucket, to weed out the bad ones, the ones who were nothing but trouble-

"Come on." Foster clapped Greg on the shoulder, causing him to flinch. The older man's fingers tightened, now pressing just a _leetle_ too hard against Greg's collarbone. It hurt. Vinnie the Dude gave a raspy little chuckle. He knew how much it hurt.

Then, like two old pals off to find their gals, Foster and Greg were strolling toward Marietta and Tessa. Tessa's sobs had turned to wet, breathy hiccups. Her tear-filled gaze pulled Greg in and held him fast. She sure did have pretty brown eyes.

"I'll introduce you," Foster said, easing his grip.

This was too easy, things were happening too quickly. Trust was a problem, like it always would be forever and ever and evermore. Vinnie the Dude cocked his head, like a raven...like a vulture. He knew all about Greg's trust issues.

"Nah..." Greg shrank back as fear gripped him by the balls. "No thanks." He gave Tessa one last lingering look of semi-longing...then bolted for the exit.


	11. Penance

**-11-**

"Penance"

Sam had a half-day at school today. A half-day. Some sort of staff development meeting had been scheduled to interrupt the flow. What kind of nonsense was that? Lisa never understood the shortened periods, the rushed, truncated lessons. As far as she could tell, the kids got nothing out of it but a stressful morning.

They should have just canned the whole day. Called it a wash.

When Lisa had a half-day back in grade school, her mother kept her home. In the Cuddy family you either went to school until the clock struck three or you didn't go at all. A half day invited confusion and trouble, Marie Cuddy insisted. No real work ever got done. It was all a_ lot of damn clock watching_.

But Lisa couldn't see fit to keep Sam home just because the school day was shorter than usual. He would be marked absent, which didn't sit well with her.

Lisa didn't get to be a Dean of Medicine by being late or calling in sick...just because.

"Sam will never have to worry about struggling to make his way in life," Charles told her recently. "He will always have connections."

"Connections don't make the man...or the woman," she responded, keeping her temper in check.

Charles might think life was who you knew, not who you were, but Lisa didn't agree. Sam would learn morals, principles and responsibility early on; she would make sure of it, regardless of his father's laissez-faire attitude.

She slowed the T-Bird to a stop at the crosswalk, letting three boys go by. Two of them she recognized from Sam's class, the other was quite a bit younger. He walked in the middle.

"Doesn't anyone pick their kids up from school anymore?"

"That's Gabe and Troy and Peter. They're going to Zack's house. Why can't I go to Zack's house too?" Sam sulked in the passenger seat, fiddling with the click-wheel of his iPod. "He invited me."

"Because Zack's parents are at work."

"So? Those kids are going. I could have gone too. We were gonna eat mac and cheese and watch Zack's dad's old wrestling tapes."

"What about homework?"

Sam bowed his head and squirmed."That too..."

"Yes, I'm sure you guys would have gotten 'round to it at some point," she sang, knowing the 'mom' tone would make Sam cringe. "But it will be so much easier to concentrate while you're at work with me. Far less distractions. No Hulk Hogan-"

Sam eyed her like she had two heads. "Hulk Hogan?" he gasped. "He was corny."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. You wanna know who the good guys were? I can tell you."

"Go on, then." She bit her lip and changed lanes, allowing a tailgating Taurus to pass.

Sam's eyes grew large with excitement. "We like Jake the Snake Roberts, Ravishing Rick Rude, Superfly Jimmy Snuka..." His words rolled and tumbled from his lips, like pebbles down a hill. "Those guys were the best."

"Wow, I wish you knew your state capitals like you know your wrestlers."

With a shrug, he returned his attention to his iPod. "Your office is a snoozefest."

"My office will be nice and quiet," Cuddy assured him in that parental tone she thought she would never use. It was funny the sort of things you promise yourself when you're hit with that first blush of motherhood. "You'll get your work done in no time."

They turned the corner and drove past signs pointing the way to the emergency room and clinic. One more block would bring her to the employee parking lot and then to her home away from home.

"Hey, Mom," Sam stashed his iPod in his book bag.

"Hey, Sam."

"How's that guy?"

"What guy?"

"You know...the guy!"

"Sam," His over-the-top exasperation made her smile. "we know lots of guys."

"That _guy _we met at The Rest Stop_. _The one who knows all the blues music and has that cool ponytail." He cocked his head, giving her a hopeful look.

"You mean...Greg?"

"Yeah."

She pulled into her spot and cut the engine. "How would I know?"

Bowing his head again, he fingered the buckle of his book bag. "I heard you on the phone telling someone you hired him to work at the hospital. You said he was your good deed for the day..."

Pulling the key from the ignition, Lisa inhaled sharply, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

Lisa looked at him, wishing the blatant trust in those eyes would go away. "It means...that I did something good for someone in need."

The lie was brash but Sam was none the wiser. He nodded and offered up that sweet grin. For a smart, precocious kid, he was still an innocent, which made her feel like shit. Lying had never been her forte, although lately she had been doing it more and more. You cover your tracks, you cover your pain.

Last Tuesday, she summoned Greg to her office, telling him she would have to cancel the evening's festivities; she needed to stay home with Sam.

Tuesday and Thursday evenings had become Greg and Lisa's party time, the Howlin' and Scratchin' Swingin' Soiree, as Greg so aptly named it. To get out of the house without arousing suspicion, Lisa told Charles she had joined a reading club that met Tuesdays and Thursday nights until eleven. It was the most laughable excuse imaginable, but he believed it, so what did it matter?

Tuesdays and Thursdays had also become Sam's nights at Zack's for dinner and video games. But this past Tuesday, Charles was off on another west coast jaunt and Sam needed to study for a history test (slim chance _that_ would happen between wrestling tapes and mac and cheese).

No, she couldn't get away, refused to be like those other parents who put their own pleasures before their kids' needs. Nope, Howlin' and Scratchin' would have to wait. Greg understood. He showed great sympathy for her plight by closing her office blinds, pushing her against her desk, pressing his mouth to her lips and throat until she bit the lobe of his ear and moaned softly for him to stop...

..._my good deed for the day..._

Yes, she recalled when those words fell from her extremely stupid mouth last Tuesday night. Sam was studying in his room. The bottle of Merlot was handier than she wanted it to be. Brenda, her head nurse and occasional lunch buddy, phoned to ask how the hell Lisa could have hired someone as brash and unconventional as Gregory House to work with that sweet-natured James Wilson.

_...my good deed for the day.._.

"Mom?"

Lisa flinched, let out a long breath. Tears pricked and scraped the corners of her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, straining to keep the waterworks from bursting through the crumbling wall.

"You okay?" Sam touched her arm, making the fight that much more difficult. "You look kind of sick and sad, like when you ate that bad sushi."

With a tremulous smile, she puttied up the holes, fending off the flood for another day. Turning to face her son, she took his hand and rasped, "I'll be fine".

Yes, she would. Tonight Charles would pick Sam up from the hospital and take him to dinner, while Lisa attended the meeting of the 'Howling and Scratchin' Swingin' Soiree'.

She would be as fine as she could be.

#

People were funny. Hell, life was funny. You never knew what was going to happen in the daily scheme of things to make your days that much more interesting.

Three weeks had gone by since he started this job. Since then, he had succeeded in making a substantial dent in the status quo. _That _was cool. The majority of the staff didn't know what to think of him, which was also cool. He let no personal information slip, except to Wilson, and discovered that surrounding himself with an aura of mystery had its benefits.

The day after he led Wilson by the nose from department to department, gathering up orphaned office supplies, while razzing the almighty department heads, he earned himself a major 'rep'. Now he couldn't walk down the hall without some nurse or other 'healthcare professional' speeding up to avoid him or slowing down to greet him.

Somehow, he had captured the interest of Tyra, a stunning Japanese research assistant from the oncology department. This afternoon, she crept up behind him in the lunch line, proposed a dinner date and 'who knew what else' for Saturday night. When he gave her a blasé look and told her he would think about it, her face fell. It seemed he had seriously wrecked her day.

It was only when he related the experience to Wilson behind the closed door of the Supply and Requisitions office did he allow himself to gloat.

Wilson looked up from his paperwork. "Aren't you going?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

Greg eased himself into the Eames chair he bribed the janitor to heist from the doctors' lounge. "Don't want to."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"She'll just reject me in the end and I'll be frustrated," Greg replied in a passable Liverpudlian drawl.

"And you think quoting Ringo from "A Hard Day's Night" is going to make your point that much more valid?"

"Woah. Two points." Greg's brows lifted. "Didn't think you'd catch that."

"It's not like a bevy of beauties is beating down the door to have the honor of a date with you."

"I'm not looking for a bevy of beauties." Greg's tone was winsome. He fluttered his lashes and smirked. "Just that one special one."

"And you don't think Tyra has a shot at being that...one? At least for a night?" Wilson sputtered and threw his hands in the air. "She's beautiful."

The truth was, Greg didn't need any more than he already had. The time he spent with Lisa was enough. Gradually, he was easing into this comfortable, clandestine relationship, becoming content and sated as a cat on a window seat.

_You're hobbling over dangerous ground_, _old man._

Yeah, but he had wandered too far from the homestead to turn back now.

With Lisa he didn't need to pretend. Their relationship had nothing to do with mortgages or shopping or bringing home the bacon. It was all about pleasure and laughter and sips of whisky. It was black condoms and edible panties. It was, he realized with no misgivings, glorious.

For eons, life had kept him on the edge. Now he was finally getting a break. He didn't miss The Rest Stop with its responsibilities and the occasional threat to life, limb and property that came with ownership. Here he was safe. He could relax. This job kept him solvent; he worked smart, not hard, managing to sit on his butt most of the day while Wilson was saddled with the grunt work. It should have been the other way around. He shouldn't be the one calling the shots, but for some reason, he was.

_Attitude_, he mused. _Get's them every time... _

"And what are you snickering about now?" Wilson asked, slapping an office supply catalog shut, steepling his fingers on top of it.

"I'm thinking about how you and me are about due to get our first drunk on."

Wilson rubbed his chin, seeming to consider this. "Okay. How about tonight?"

"Can't...got a reading club meeting tonight."

Scoffing, Wilson tilted his head. "There is no way you belong to a reading group."

Greg scowled as his eyes narrowed to slits. "You think I'm just some average slob, who sits in front of the tube with a beer can and chips and watches sports and war movies."

"I-" Wilson's hands shot up to refute the allegations.

"You think I have absolutely no literary leanings? Thanks...thanks a bunch."

Letting his hands fall to the desk, Wilson said, "I'm sorry..."

"Hmmph, I suppose you think that meek apology makes everything all better." Greg held fast to that mischievous smirk threatening to shine.

"I had my hopes." Wilson got busy straightening his papers and checking his watch. "So what do you read at these meetings?"

Greg allowed his smirk out to play. "We're currently discussing _Stories To Make You Blush: Seven Naughty Tales_. Very enlightening."

"Somehow," Wilson shook his head, waggling a pencil at him, "I can picture it."

"We'll go out Saturday night. Scribble that in the appointment book you keep locked away in your desk."

"How would you know what's locked in my desk?"

Greg replied by pursing his lips and arching a brow...

...which is when the door opened.

Lisa stood at the threshold, clad in a form fitting black dress embellished with tiny white stars. The design brought to mind a midnight sky painted on velvet: one of those twenty dollar specials sold off the back of a truck. The dress was cut low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. Greg enjoyed the view; Lisa was looking good but frazzled, wearing a smile that didn't quite ring true.

At her side was the kid she had occasionally brought to The Rest Stop - the smart kid who liked the blues and asked a lot of good questions. The kid who inherited Lisa's cornflower blue eyes and high cheekbones. For a moment, the boy locked eyes with him, giving him a solid scrutiny, as if _(watch out!)_ questions of a personal nature might be forthcoming.

"Sam had a half-day at school." Lisa's hand settled on her son's shoulder. The kid made a half-hearted attempt to shrug away, but Greg's tight-lipped look of warning stopped him cold.

"Since he did such a good job getting his homework done, I thought I might allow him to spend time with you gentlemen."

Wilson made a sweeping gesture at the cartons and shelves. "_This_ is a reward?"

"Of course it is," Greg crowed. "The smell of toner, the shine of paper clips. What mortal could possibly resist an offer to spend valuable disposable time surrounded by such a treasure trove."

Sam covered his mouth and giggled.

Something sparkled in Cuddy's eyes, for a moment her stress seemed to head off into the ozone.

"Sure, let the kid stay. We'll corrupt him. You won't know him when you get him back. If..." Greg threw Sam an ominous leer. "you get him back."

"Be good." Lisa ruffled Sam's hair before turning to Greg and Wilson. "Thank you." She fixed Greg with the briefest look of erotic promise before switching round on one high heel, leaving the trio to their business.

#

"First we head to Diagnostics."

"Why?" Sam wheeled the supply cart down the corridor, while Greg loped along beside him.

"Because we start at the top floor and work our way down to the bottom." He turned and raised a finger, signaling Sam to stop. "Then we get a snack."

"I like that part."

"Good. It's important to agree with me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm always right."

"Oh." Sam seemed to mull this over before asking, "Could we play more blues music later in your office?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Wilson doesn't like it."

"So...can't we tell him he has to agree with you and listen to the blues because you're always right?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I am forced to compromise with him. He's a good cook and sometimes brings me food I like."

Scratching his head, Sam's face scrunched up in happy confusion. "Wha-aat?"

"One day you'll understand-"

"When I'm older."

"Yeah."

"I hate when people say that," Sam said.

"Me too."

"They say it to you?"

"All the time."

Greg shouldered open the door to Diagnostics and, with a flourish of his hand, directed Sam to wheel the cart inside. At first glance the office appeared vacant, but then he noticed movement in the corner by the window. A woman was seated behind a metal desk. Head bowed, she was intent on her work, scribbling notes in a file folder. After a moment, she looked up.

She was pretty, blonde, slim, much too young for her gaze to be lingering on him. Those big blue eyes fixed him with a steady, discomfiting look from which he very much wanted to escape.

He cleared his throat and blinked. "You ordered five boxes of black Dri-Marks. I'm bringing you three." He indicated the boxes on the cart with an impatient flick of his hand. "Let's see how long it takes you to go through them." He nudged Sam. "Go."

Sam walked the boxes over to the desk and set them before her, throwing in a brilliant smile as an added bonus.

"Easy, tiger," Greg beckoned him back to the cart. "Let's get moving."

"Wait...I'm sorry." The woman stood and smoothed the front of her lab coat. "You've been here a few weeks and we've never been properly introduced. I'm Allison Cameron."

"Good for you." He hitched a thumb toward the door. "Move 'em out, Sam."

"Is your name Greg House?" she asked.

"If I say yes, can I go?"

"In a couple of minutes."

He let out an impatient grunt. "We are working here. We are B-U-S-Y. You doctors may have golf games and sabbaticals that take you away from the daily grind but some of us are forced to actually-"

"Just...would you mind just...waiting here for one minute?" She held up those slim hands in a placating gesture.

"Why?"

She tapped her foot. Beneath her calm demeanor, Greg caught a flicker of impatience. "Because it's important."

"To whom?" Under her watchful eyes, he retrieved a vial from his jeans pocket, shook it twice for effect, then flipped the cap off and spilled two pills into his hand.

"Greg." Sam tugged once at his shirt. "I think you're making her feel bad."

Yes, it seemed Cameron's eyes_ had_ misted up, each cheek now a bloom of scarlet. Her pale pink lower lip trembled.

_Attitude get's 'em every time._

He raised his palm to his mouth, threw back his head and made a great show of swallowing his pills. After making all gone, he groused, "This better be good."

Cameron raced out of the office and was back in less than two minutes. Greg knew since he had timed her.

"Is this you?" she asked, thrusting a square plastic case at him.

He didn't want to look but it didn't matter. His eyes had plans of their own, traveling down the length of Allison Cameron's arm and stopping at something he had done his best to leave behind. But, hey, whaddya know? Here it was again. Just goes to show you, the past plays catch up in its own time. It doesn't matter how hard you try to abandon it. It's got the smarts and the knowhow to track you down.

Heaving a resigned sigh, he eased the case from her fingers. The cover showed a familiar image of four scruffy guys sitting on wooden crates in a back alley. He recalled that the alley was two blocks away from The Casbah, the club where Dynamite hosted their CD release party. Greg's own copy of the CD was currently hidden at the bottom of a orange crate filled with DVDs. He avoided that disc like it was a broken mirror, a hand of aces and eights, an upside-down horseshoe. Bad luck. But as much as he wanted it out of his life, he couldn't bring himself to throw it away.

_Never, ever gonna leave you, darlin'..._

"'Do What You Do' was my father's favorite song when I was a kid," Allison was saying, her words drifting through the nightmarish pall that had fallen over everything. "He used to play it in the car, sing it around the house. I know this music." She shut up. Finally.

Greg rubbed his brow, closed his eyes against the roar of blood in his ears. He might drown in it; he just might-

"You played keyboards." It was an accusation, as sudden and painful as a left jab to the kidneys. He couldn't deny it. He would never escape it.

"Can I see?" Sam tugged his sleeve again; without a word Greg handed the kid the hateful thing.

"You guys were...great." Cameron's voice was soft, almost reverent. "Whatever happened to-"

"We all died and went to hell," Greg snapped. "Having to deal with you is my penance."

Cameron flinched as if she'd been flicked with scalding water. But she didn't back down. "You still play?"

"I told you we're busy. Sam give that thing back to her."

"I wish I could hear it..." With great reluctance, he returned the disc to Cameron.

"I'll burn you a copy." She smiled at him warmly. "You're Sam, Dr. Cuddy's son, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'll drop it off at her office later today." She winked. "You're helping out, I see."

"No," Greg muttered. "He's the Unibomber casing the joint, planning his next move."

"Greg's just being silly." Sam said, standing a little taller. "I am helping. This is my good deed for the day."

"Really?"

"Mom said Greg was her good deed for the day. This is mine."

"I...see," she managed to say.

The silence that fell was as thick and unctuous as three day old gravy. Greg opened his mouth, planning a retort, something suitably offhanded, but he couldn't seem to grasp the thoughts that were bobbing and weaving around his gray matter. Maybe he hadn't heard the kid right. Kids mumble, fall over their words, words that fly from their mouths at light speed. But no. From the look on Allison Cameron's face, Greg knew his ears had not deceived him.

After offering Greg one slow nod of...sympathy or empathy or something equally as vile, Cameron turned and headed back to her work. The CD case swung up and back in her hand, catching a glint of the late afternoon sun through the blinds.

Head lowered, Greg turned way from the kid with the cart, the young woman with the medical degree, and hobbled slowly out the door.


	12. Safety In Numbers

**-12-**

"Safety In Numbers" (1983)

Fact Number One: Vinnie the Dude had garlic breath. He also had hair sticking out of his ears and dandruff dotting the lapels of his pinstriped jacket. His suit or skin or...some other putrid part of his person gave off a strange aroma of Citronella and turpentine. Greg knew all this and wished he didn't.

Fact Number Two: Vinnie the Dude had a grip that wouldn't quit. His meaty fist grabbed a handful of Greg's collar, yanking it with enough force to elicit a strangled cry from the G-Man, that hapless keyboard player from the best band in the land.

_Yeah, right._

Greg lurched forward, his stomach doing a two step as it rumbled its rebellion.

A conference had convened; in attendance were the three servings of eggs, pancakes, sausage, _et.al, _Greg had consumed for breakfast. The half digested lump now rose to the center of his chest in protestation of Vinnie the Dude's manhandling. Swallowing hard did nothing to send the it back where it belonged. It persevered, sitting like a mound of clay, until the time came for it to take that final step and become...spew.

Greg winced. He had done nothing wrong, his only crime being that he hadn't had a proper shower in...some time.

The problem was clear as the Vegas sky; he was well aware of why he was being treated like a criminal. It was his sketchy, scum-of-the-earth, street bum look. Appearance, it seemed, counted a lot with folks like Vinnie. With his bloodshot eyes, uncombed mess of hair and two days growth of stubble, Greg looked every bit the transient troublemaker Vinnie assumed he was.

He had almost gotten away. But when he pulled the door open and set one foot on the warm pavement, Vinnie grabbed his arm and wrenched him back inside.

_You in an awful hurry. Why is that, Pancho?_

Now Vinnie shook him, just a little, which was enough to inspire a long, bilious belch to rise from Greg's innards. He cringed at the taste and swallowed again against a sudden bout of nausea.

"You think you're funny, kid?" Vinnie was in his face now. "Sneaking around this place like some kind of safecracker."

_Safecracker? _He might have laughed, if he thought he could do it without spewing eggy vomit all over Vinnie's hot off the sale rack suit.

"What you up to kid?"

"I think I might puke." Greg gagged.

"Why you gonna puke?" Vinnie tilted his head this way and that, like a cock-eyed sparrow. "You a dope fiend who can't find no fix?"

"Yo, Greg, my man!"

Vinnie scowled, looking past his prey toward the source of the interruption.

"G-Man." Foster was beside him now, sweating like a man who had just run a marathon. Perspiration seeped through the clingy material of his shirt, pooling under his arms and saturating the rim of his collar. "Thank the good lord I found you."

"You...found me?"

His face was close enough for Greg to see the red road map of veins in the whites of his eyes. "Shut...up," he hissed.

"This guy with you?" Vinnie asked Foster.

"Yeah. Been looking for him all morning."

"He like a safecracker," Vinnie huffed. "Sneaky little shit."

"I know," Foster's lips twisted into a tolerant smirk. "He plays piano in my band, Dynamite. You ever hear of us?"

"No, Mister, I no know music."

"It's his first time here in Vegas. I guess he had a bit too much of the night life," Foster said with a wink. "You know how it is."

The room tilted and Greg followed suit, clinging hard to Foster's shoulder. "I'm gonna hurl."

After one final scrutiny of the pair, Vinnie took a step back and folded his arms. "Best take care of your own if you don't want no trouble, Mister. Keep the boy in line." Lifting his head, he surveyed his domain and set off through the crowd to perhaps foil another shifty safecracker's devious plan.

"Good show," Foster whispered in Greg's ear.

"It's no show." Greg pulled away from him. "I _am_ gonna hurl."

_Deep breaths. __It's not that far. You can make it. Deep breaths. It's not that far. You can make it. _The mantra in his head would not quit, keeping a solid rhythm as he stumbled through the crowd toward his destination. With a gurgling groan, he crashed through the rest room door and made it into a stall just in time.

He fell to his knees and gripped the sides of the bowl, his insides giving one last churn before saying _au revior _to breakfast. The remains of that meal propelled itself from him, as traitorous as his so called pals, spilling into the bowl in a violent rush...once, twice, and one more time for good measure. Moaning, he managed to push himself to his feet, staggered to one side, watching with dazed fascination as black spots danced against the cream colored tile. He thought it might be nice to join them, to close his eyes as that cool tile rushed to meet his cheek. But a strong hand pulled back on his hair, thwarting his plans.

"You are one fucking mess, you know that, G-Man?"

Foster again. He couldn't lose the guy.

"Are you done?" Foster growled.

"Mgurmph,"

Foster leaned over to flush away the remnants of a good morning gone bad. "Let's get you cleaned up. Tessa and Marietta are out there buying you a new shirt."

Greg hung his head, snagged his vomit flecked back pack off the floor, and sobbed a little.

"Don't give me any of your crap. You _owe_ me, man." Foster shouldered open the stall door and pulled Greg over to the sink.

The light out here was too clean, too bright. Two guys stood at the urinals, chatting and chuckling as they pissed.

"You'd be in some fuckin' interrogation room now if it wasn't for me putting on that 'sweat drenched worried friend' act for you.

Greg's reflection cringed back at him. Specks of yellow dotted his chin. Urinal guys zipped up and left the room.

"Wash your face," Foster jabbed him in the small of his back. "Go on."

Greg leaned over the basin and ran the water as Foster unbuckled the pack Greg had dropped to the floor. After rooting inside it for a few moments, Foster retrieved a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush, then thrust them at Greg. "Use these. You need them. Bad."

After drying his face, Greg applied the toothpaste to the brush, wet it under the faucet and put it in his mouth. _Up, down, up, down, that's the way it goes-_

"You're hot shit, you know that, G-Man." Foster was pacing behind him, his footfalls keeping time with the teeth cleaning process. "You can't do things the easy way. If you had come along with us last night, you wouldn't have this asinine problem today."

Greg spit, rinsed, then locked eyes with Foster's reflection. "Denny drugged your drinks. The three of you passed out in the Jungle Room."

"You're delirious," Foster grumbled, but suddenly his gaze flicked away. He didn't look so cock-sure anymore.

"Denny had a needle. He gave me a shot...of something. He did something to me."

"What did he do?"

"Something...you don't want to know. Hell, you don't care, anyway." His voice shook as he shoved his toothbrush and toothpaste tube back into his pack. "I'm frightened and you don't care."

"You know," Foster half chortled, half sighed, "you and Tessa should really spend some time together."

Hitching his pack up on his shoulder, Greg snorted. "Why, so you and Bimbo, Incorporated can get down to business?"

"No." Foster shook his head and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "Because Tessa says the same thing you do about the drinks and the drugs and the hypodermic."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Greg shrugged. "That's fine."

"What the hell do you mean, _fine?"_

"It's not only fine. It's amazing, extraordinary, momentous." Greg headed for the door. "Two people tell the same horrific story and you still don't give a shit." Suddenly he giggled like a smitten schoolgirl. "That Denny, he sure is dreamy. What a master of manipulation."

A reply might have been forthcoming. The way Foster took a step forward and raised one hand, he _looked_ like might have had something dandy to say. For one insane moment, Greg envisioned Diana Ross pulling the same pose, singing "Stop In the Name of Love" But Foster was nowhere near as articulate as Diana. His mouth fell open but nothing came out. He had suddenly been struck speechless.

Good.

Greg took one last look at Foster, wanting to zing him with a _gotcha _but thinking better of it.

_No sense pushing your luck, kiddo._

He was silent as he staggered from the room, as the door swing shut behind him.

#

Women were crafty creatures.

Greg suspected these two possessed some kind of witchy healing voodoo. When they fussed over him, brushed his hair back from his brow with those sweet smelling hands, they were doing more than making him looking presentable. They were casting a spell on him.

Tessa shyly handed him the shirt she and Marietta had purchase at the Bucket Boutique, then strolled with him, waiting outside the men's room where he would put it on...

_(Trash the old one, Sweet Pea. It stinks!)._

He felt intoxicated, charmed, as if someone had lifted him bodily and stuck him in a very good place.

At the bar, Foster waited, nursing a frothy concoction garnished with an orange slice on top. "Is he feeling better?" he asked, raising a brow. "Certainly cleans up nice."

"He'll do." Marietta's laugh was like steel wool against sand. She scrubbed a hand through Greg's tousled hair. Any other time he might have told her to go to hell. But right now he wasn't in the mood for a battle of wills. His tongue made a trek across his dry lips, thirsting for something cool and sweet. A Coca-Cola would be nice. Marietta's slim, strong hand was around his waist now; his head rested against her shoulder. Her scent was exotic, floral, musky. Sexy.

Tessa stood on his other side, her hand soft and cool in his.

"Who picked that monstrosity of a shirt?" Foster sipped his drink, gesturing at the shirt's hodge-podge design of flora and fauna dancing in a forest of mauve.

"Little Tessa liked the colors. Don't make the kid feel bad. She's had a tough enough time."

"Aw, I wouldn't do that, baby."

Marietta released Greg from her embrace, which caused a cloud to fall over that hard won patch of sun. But all was not lost. Tessa's body pressed against his. _She_ had not abandoned him.

Swaggering toward the bar, Marietta planted herself behind Foster, letting out a long breath, while wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "We going to get this party started, Sir Foster? " She winked at Greg. "I call him Sir Foster because of his prominent lance."

Laughter bubbled up in the back of Greg's throat, inviting itself to the festivities. He threw his head back and let it out. Yeah, laughter was the goddamn best medicine. Good for what ails you. Giggling softly, Tessa traced her thumb along his palm.

He surrendered, of course. It was easy to become caught up in the moment, to tumble into Tessa's deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. He let himself swim in those warm pools for awhile. Probably too long. When he resurfaced, a big guy wearing a Red Sox cap and his matronly looking gal pal had replaced Foster and Marietta at the bar.

Greg's eyes wandered the casino crowd. How the pair could have made such a speedy escape was beyond him. He turned to Tessa. "What now?"

In response, she wrapped one arm around Greg's waist, Marietta-style. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and wine and was warm as summer wind against his cheek. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

#

After spending an hour in Tessa's company, the strip seemed more like a magical, benevolent beastie than the monstrous apparition of a few hours ago. They were like two kids at a fun fair, poking their heads into the smaller gambling halls, giggling at the weird, the downtrodden, the movie star wannabes, the rogues on the make. The town was an endless source of amusement, and the greasy security dudes didn't give him a second look now that he was with her.

The two of them somehow ended up at Caesar's Palace, a hotel of gargantuan proportions, impressing Greg as one monumental paean to excess and hedonism. It was a laugh riot all the way, the most ridiculous place either of them had ever seen. They gawped at the golden pillars flanking the entranceway, the Roman gladiators roaming the lobby, the gilt edge mirrors, the marble adorned staircase leading from the lobby to...who knew where?

The place wasn't too proud to have a food court. After all, where there were tourists, there must be fast food. They bought sodas, taking little sips through their straws as they headed outside to stroll the grounds. There they discovered Caesar's famous fountains, an odd slice of serenity plunked smack dab in the middle of the strip. Here was a scrupulously maintained garden, benches situated close enough to the fountains so one could enjoy the cool spray without getting drenched. It was a perfect place to soak up some rays and make a quick escape from the slots.

Greg polished off the last of his drink as Tessa flipped a penny into the surrounding pool. The fountains, she informed him, held three hundred and fifty thousand gallons of water, ten thousand of which were continually shooting in the air over these reflecting pools.

"How do you know?"

"What?"

"It's your first time here and you're jabbering away like a tour guide." With two fingers he touched her chin, turning her face towards his. "What gives?"

"I have a secret," she whispered. Those eyes widened, pulling him in again.

He shifted uneasily and let his hand fall to his lap. Tessa's eyes _were_ witchy, ensnaring him, refusing to let go. She smiled slow and sweet. _Like honey dripping_, he thought. Was she savoring his discomfort? _Focus. Concentrate. Birds on the grass. Little ones. Sparrows, maybe? _He watched them push their beaks into the dirt, pecking, prodding, searching. But there were no worms, no crumbs, no payback for their efforts, and after a while, they fluttered off. Cupping a hand over his eyes, Greg watched them for as long as he could keep them in his sights. _Nothing. _They were dots shimmering in the blue; then they were gone, which made him feel strangely empty, a black hole in the cloudless sky.

What the hell was his problem? Why couldn't stop his mouth? Why couldn't he rein in his suspicions? If he couldn't trust Tessa, or at least get her to tell her story, he might as well make tracks to the Greyhound station and head back east.

"They sell these things called travel guides," she was saying. "They're filled with oodles of fun facts." She retrieved a slim book from her purse and handed it to him. "You should read one sometime."

He glanced at the image of the Las Vegas strip on the guide's cover, before meeting her eyes again. "What happened to you at the Stockholm's?" he asked softly.

She rolled her shoulders and tapped two fingers against the bench. "Do we have to talk about that?"

"Don't you want to?"

She rubbed her palms together before pressing them against her denim clad knees. "No."

"It's important."

"No!"

"My goodness, you're afraid," he said. "Gee, I wonder why?"

She sighed, then lapsed into silence. Pressing her lips together, she threw him a hard look, one tear shimmered in the corner of her eye before rolling down her cheek. "Marietta thinks I'm not only out of my mind, but that I'm ungrateful. She says that these people are taking care of us, getting us work, and that my imagination must be playing tricks on me. No way they would have touched _you_, Tessa." She snorted a laugh that was both humorless and derisive. "After all, if they were going to take advantage of anyone, it would certainly be Miss Naughty Marietta."

"We should pool our money, get a room," Greg said decisively. "It would just be for the night. Then we wouldn't have to deal with them."

"Oh...sure," she said. "We should get a room. That would be a real sacrifice for you."

"Don't turn this into something it's not."

"How do I know _you_ wouldn't use such an opportunity to take advantage of me." Her eyes narrowed. "How easy it would be."

Annoyance and disappointment accosted him like muggers in a dark alley. No way he could shake them. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Forget it," he grumbled, pushing himself off the bench.

He walked quickly, putting distance between them, refusing to look back as he considered his next move. The perfect place to stew came immediately to mind: a barroom further down the strip. Palomino's. It was dank, dark and desolate, a hole to fall into when you've shot your wad with no chance of recouping your losses. A Palomino's customer was nothing more than shadow, hovering over his whiskey like it was the last shot at salvation.

Greg looked forward to spending some quality time there, getting more drunk than he had ever been. His steps were long and purposeful as he made his way down the path to the strip.

But Tessa was persistent, closing in behind him. The soles of her sandals slapped loudly against the concrete. "Wait," she called. "Wait."

Now she was beside him, matching his steps stride for loping stride.

"What?" he snapped. He wouldn't look at her, no longer wanting to hear her story or gaze into her pretty eyes. The only one he needed was himself.

But she was touching his shoulder. Gently...softly. When was the last time anyone touched him like that?

"I have a better idea," Her voice was calm and assured. "Let's go back there together."

He stopped to glare at her, unmindful of the passersby blatant 'what have we here?' looks. _Screw them, fuck them. Fuck everybody._

"Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"It's the only way they'll leave us alone."

"No, uh, uh." Greg folded his arms across his chest. "It would just up the ante, double their fun."

"But now we know what to expect, Greg," she said. "The element of surprise is gone. We have the advantage."

She tilted her head as she took his hand. He noticed the dimple near her cheekbone, the perspiration sparkling on the coffee and cream skin of her neck and brow. So damn pretty.

"Trust me," she said, smiling.

#

In the Jungle Room, gold lamé panties, a sports bra, and an interesting array of shirts and jeans lay over the furniture like exhausted refugees from a Goodwill store. Empty Corona bottles, three feather boas, and some not so innocent debris (a tiny spoon in a square of foil, a razorblade in an ashtray) were scattered about the room, irrefutable evidence that the evening's entertainment had been nowhere near 'safe'.

On the sofa, Baggins lay open-mouthed, his tongue lolling, a thin stripe of drool decorating his chin. His head tilted at an odd angle against the armrest. He was cold stone out of it. One arm dangled off the sofa cushion, the other was wrapped around the bare-chested, pimple faced gentleman laying beside him. How cute. Baggins' love connection sported a hoop earring and a pink and yellow Mohawk.

A half-hearted attempt had been made to tidy up the room; a large pink trashcan stood in the center of the whirlwind, its lid askew, a jockstrap peeking from its depths. Someone's best intentions had gone astray.

Greg wondered about last night. What had it been like? Sex and drugs and rock and roll? Suddenly he envied those involved and wished he could have been around. _Why?_ Those thoughts were unsettling, bubbling up from some slimy portion of his gray matter. After all, here he was trying to keep out of harm's way and suddenly harm's way seemed tempting and undeniably right.

_What is wrong with you?_

When they arrived, Crandall had let them in, giving them a cool once over and a mumbled greeting before returning to his room and shutting the door. From the look of his bleary eyes and his sweat stained t-shirt, he had most certainly been an active participant in pahhr-rtay time.

And where might their genial hosts Denny and Martha be? Greg wondered as Tessa continued to lead him through the Jungle Room into an area that was half gauche, half genteel. Somebody couldn't make up their mind or maybe Denny and Martha had exploded and this was the aftermath. There were crystal chandeliers, a candy pink carpet and a well stocked bar. Two red leather recliners were available if you and your pal were too intoxicated to move.

Paintings of seascapes and idyllic country scenes decorated one salmon pink wall. Across the room, pastel yellow draperies floated over a picture window, and directly ahead was a spiral staircase leading to...somewhere.

"It's like a cotton candy factory got taken over by the mob," Greg said.

"Let's go," Tessa took his hand and pulled him toward the stairs.

He took two steps then froze. "Not a good idea."

"Safety in numbers, Greg."

"I think I'd rather take my chances out on the wild and woolly strip."

"And what will you do tonight?" she asked, tightening her fingers around his. "And what will happen to me?"

"You'll deal with it. You'll be fine...I'll be fine." He tried switching around on his heel but her grip was viselike, keeping him in place. "This whole thing doesn't feel right," he said.

"No, of course it doesn't."

With one good twist of his wrist, he wrenched his hand free. "Thank you."

"Please," she said, scuffling after him as he tromped back into the Jungle Room. "Just...help me."

On the sofa, Baggins snored, pulling his luscious lovely into a more intimate embrace.

"Gross," Greg grumbled, spat out an epithet, then turned and headed back to candy floss land.

Tessa was beside him now, taking his arm and gazing at him, tears shimmering in those pretty eyes.

Without another word, they headed up the spiral staircase. Together.


	13. Always About the Woman

**-13-**

"Always About the Woman"

The Rest Stop wasn't especially creepy, if anything it was too laidback and _normal_ to be thought of as anything but run-of-the-mill (which was strange, since it was run by an exceedingly complex man).

But when night fell, a bit of creepiness did manage to sneak into the mix. Shadows took up residence in the store's nooks and crannies: the empty shelves, the dusty area beneath the jukebox, the slim crevice behind the barren soda machine. Those quiet seconds before Greg turned on the lights were something out of a 1950's horror flick: floorboards creaked, vermin chittered, baring tiny fangs, lying in wait just for her.

_Just for you, Lisa._

Those beady eyes glimmered in the rear of the store, back where the darkness folded in on itself and shadows never tread.

Normally, Greg would snigger at her unease, chide her for her overactive imagination, as he wrapped her in a sudden, impetuous embrace. His hands would knead her breasts, his breath a low, hot growl in her ear. But tonight he bypassed the routine, heading instead to the rear of the store to turn on the fluorescents, leaving her where she stood, bathed in a cold puddle of safety light by the door-

-which made her feel somehow abandoned. She clutched her handbag to her like a woman waiting for the last bus home.

The fluorescents flickered on, their insect-like buzz filling the silence. The _ba-thump _of Greg's painstaking footfalls up the stairs provided a strange, uneven percussion to the din, a disturbing, melancholy sound.

She heard the upstairs door creak open, then click shut. Perhaps she wasn't welcome here tonight.

And maybe she knew why.

No real guesswork was involved. Six months had passed since she first noticed Greg sitting outside The Rest Stop. Six months since that grungy, crusty charm had won her (and Sam) over. After that, she became 'Mistress', calling the shots, convincing Greg to close his store, _his _store, and work for her.

_Because that's how you wanted it, boss lady. _

Because he thrilled her in bed, challenged her intellectually, excited her on a level no one ever had. Yeah, and in return for making her life so much richer, boss lady boldly screwed with his state of mind.

He would have been fine without her, probably better off never having made her acquaintance.

Six months used to be Lisa's limit for keeping a relationship going. That was before marrying Charles and way before meeting Greg. Once in a great while she might have let the thing drag on for a year, more out of wanting to keep up a comfortable routine than for any sense of love or longing. Commitment had never been her forte.

With Greg, she was treading on dangerous ground because she cared about him. How many nights had she lay awake, struggling to convince herself otherwise? Now, staring up at the closed door of his apartment, she wondered how life would be if Sam had not been thirsty on the way home that day. Or if she had never met Charles. Where would she be now?

_Where would you like to be?_

There in that room, with Greg howling along with Buddy Guy's "Rollin' and Tumblin'". In that room where they laughed and screwed and chattered away about books and people and food and life.

There. In that room. She stared at the closed door, hesitating only once before crossing the length of the Rest Stop and climbing the stairs.

#

He liked words.

_Duh, obviously. _His massive collection of books made this fact pretty darn evident.

Words had power to persuade, cajole, charm, fluster. They could make you weep, cause you to reconsider your worth.

_Good deed for the day..._

Sam's pronouncement, spoken proudly and without malice that afternoon, haunted him. It had staying power - like his recurring dream of his band in the van, rolling down that endless stretch of desert highway, heading over a rollercoaster rise before plunging abruptly and completely into the Pacific.

The end didn't happen that way, although it might as well have.

_Good deed for the day..._

He simply could not put those words out of his mind.

When served up with a garnish of truth, words also had the power to slice and dice. Say what you feel, what you know is right, no matter how it stings or cuts or decimates. Life taught him it wasn't necessary to mince those words he loved so well. After all, what were they for if not to use to his best advantage?

But he had never revealed this brutal, caustic side of himself to _Lisa_, _Lisa, _smooth of skin, foul of mouth. Mistress. He never had a reason to bring out the heavy artillery before today.

_You're thinking of the ancient Egyptian falcata, a sword so deadly, Alexander the Great equipped his armies with it. A weapon of such might and malice, it could drive off an enemy with one bold swipe._

_Your words are honed sharp as that formidable weapon. You are ready, old man._

_But is that what you really want?_

Once it was easy not to care, right? It was simple to think it was just the warm, shapely body, the throaty laugh and the smart, acid comebacks he lusted after. Not any more.

_Good deed..._

He sat on the edge of the bed, his Martin acoustic a comforting presence on his lap, in his arms.

"_They say the blues is just a bad dream. It lives inside your head," _

"I never heard that one before."

His eyes shifted from his fingers on the fretboard to Lisa standing with her hip against the doorjamb, her purse slung over her shoulder. She was that woman at Sephora, at Bath and Body, at Saks Fifth. _That_ woman would never dream of setting foot in a dump like this.

But here she was.

Her eyes held a question, which he answered by lowering his head to the body of the guitar. Two fingers slid way up high on the frets, bending the B and high E strings almost to their limit.

_Ow...wow...owoooowww!_

"Greg...?"

The pick fell to the floor; he made no move to retrieve it. Let it stay where it was and grow dusty, crusty and old. When he met Lisa's eyes again he saw her vulnerability, ripe and ready for the falcata to rend through it and be done.

"Your boy is smart," he began, "probably too smart. Precocious kids never get picked first for softball or work up the nerve to ask the pretty girl to dance." He paused, watching her stiffen as his words took hold. "You baby him, which isn't going to do him any good in the long run."" Pressing his lips together, he picked out a bluesy riff on the lower strings. "But he loves you, thinks the sun rises and sets on you, repeats your words like they're sage and wise."

_Chop, dice and slice..._

"It was a mistake."

He chuckled softly, watched her flinch, then laughed quietly again. "It was no mistake, just the truth all dolled up in a party dress."

"I'm sorry." She fiddled with the clasp on her purse, two tiny gold berries intertwined "I was kind of drunk when I said it...talking on the phone...Sam overheard."

"Why, Mistress, who knew you would chatter about your boy toy so indiscriminately?"

"Stop calling me that."

"If the name fits-"

"Just...stop."

One hand traced the smooth curve of the Martin's body, the same hand that had caressed Lisa's breasts, her thighs, her hair. "A grain of truth lives in the most spontaneous, misguided statement." A corner of his lip lifted slightly. "Aw, Mistress, don't look so sad. It's okay, because now I know. Now I can plan accordingly."

She took one step forward, eyeing him suspiciously. "Plan what?"

"That's my business, isn't it?"

"Greg...you don't..."

"I don't what? You think I don't understand?" He cocked his head, his mouth twisting into a smug, crooked grin. "I've been played by the best. Believe me, you ain't got nothing on them."

Lisa didn't seem to know what to do with her hands. They fluttered briefly at her sides before lifting toward him as an entreaty. "Brenda...she couldn't understand why I hired you," she stammered. "I had to say...something."

"'The best man for the job' would have gotten you the gold star," he told her, finger-picking a gentle folk melody.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, slipping her bag off her shoulder and approaching the bed.

"You should go."

She froze in mid-step.

"I have it on good authority that tonight's reading club was canceled due to a conflict of interests."

Hurt, distress, and something closer to anger than regret, trudged across her features, like mourners at a funeral procession. She gripped the strap of her bag, securing it over her shoulder, before taking a reluctant step back.

"Go home to your kid...and your husband," he told her. "Use the time well, make it a real family night. You guys could play Scrabble or Parcheesi," Lifting a brow, he added, "or Risk".

With great care, he set the guitar on the comforter, pushed himself off the bed, and wove an uneven path between the boxes of books and paraphernalia.

"Greg..." she called softly.

"Gotta pee," he said, entering the bathroom and easing the door closed. Head lowered, he leaned against the sink until he heard her footsteps on the stairs, until he heard the downstairs door slam shut, until he was sure she was gone.

#

One look at Garibaldi's told Greg the place was a lot of things, but it was not _him;_ it was nothing like what he had been anticipating. Disappointment rattled his cage. He had been looking forward to spending his Saturday night getting sloshed in a hole, a pit, one of those places where you nodded once and your poison magically appeared. No frills, no muss, no fuss.

But this place was yuppie heaven. Golden strands of light decorated the windows, a menu was displayed in a glass frame on the brick wall near the entranceway, smooth jazz poured from well concealed speakers. Good thing those speakers were out of sight. He would have been tempted to chuck a stone or boulder or _something _their way to save humanity from the tortuous pap spewing from them.

The place was so damn _chi-chi. _

_So damn Wilson._

In a parking lot filled with Volvos and Subarus, the Repsol looked as out of place as a mongrel at the Westminster Kennel Club. Guys with square jaws, square heads and nauseatingly fashionable stubble escorted their perfect blonde door prizes inside to fill their flat little tummies.

Of course, Wilson chose the place. _Garibaldi's _sounded like one of those socially acceptable 'pubs' Wilson would frequent. The name should have immediately given it away.

Sighing, Greg shook his head, disappointed in himself for not realizing what he was getting himself into.

But there was no turning back now.

Wilson could be an infuriating prick, always picking Greg's brain, and 'getting' him better than anyone, even Lisa. It was a guy thing, maybe.

They had gotten together for pizza and beers a few times. There were a couple of quick meals at Greg's place, but Wilson had never been comfortable there. His apartment was more spacious, more conducive to socializing. They sat back on his sofa, shot the breeze, but their conversations never got past movies and work and surface ramblings. Wilson tried digging but Greg hadn't found it in himself to open up just yet.

_Was big boy Greg afraid Jimbo might see through the facade? Would he dig deep enough to discover that dour, miserable soul of yours? _

Maybe, maybe not. Somehow it didn't matter since Greg had finally surrendered to his own curiosity. Under the influence of late night beers and "The Essential Muddy Waters" CD cranked up high, he finally convinced himself that, yeah, maybe it _would_ be cool to open up, let the real Greg come out to play.

Those true confessions would start tonight. At Garibaldi's.

But now he was here, and his feet were slowly turning to slabs of ice.

Getting back on his bike and roaring off home occurred to him. Then what? Get shitfaced all by his lonesome? The idea had its merits. But passing out in bed, surrounded by a bottle of scotch and a gaggle of empty beer cans was not an appealing proposition.

Besides, if he went home, his thoughts would inevitably stray to Lisa.

He didn't want to think of Lisa anymore.

After sending her away two nights ago, sleep had packed its bags and taken a fast train to Cincinnati or Kansas City or...somewhere far away. Restlessness had become his new, unwanted houseguest. The minute he lay down, it cuddled up beside him, wrecking his night. He would toss and turn, doze off and jolt awake an hour later. His Vicodin helped a little, offering him a couple of hours of dreamless respite before his thoughts reeled him in again.

_Lisa. _Those thoughts of her, dreams of her touch, her smell, the sex, haunted him. Passing each other in the hospital corridors had done nothing to help the situation. There had been no words, no attempts at a reconciliation. Hell, he wasn't the one in the wrong. It wasn't up to him to start the damn peace talks.

He took some consolation in the fact she had been looking kind of haggard herself, sporting too much makeup (which he figured was a sure sign she was concealing a ghostly pallor and dark circles under those bloodshot eyes). Sleep, it seemed, had been evading her too.

Good.

He scanned the parking area, spying Wilson's Volvo a few feet from the entrance. The lot was pretty full, which meant Wilson had been here awhile. He and Wilson had been due to meet at eight. It was ten past now. Why had Wilson arrived so early?

A wild and wooly thought occurred to Greg. Maybe Wilson wasn't alone. Maybe he was with someone who wanted to eat as well as drink, which would mean arriving early because she was hungry.

She.

Wilson was with a woman.

It was boys night out, truth or dare time, and Wilson brought a date. That wasn't fair.

Greg tamped the rubber tip of his cane against the cement. Anger jabbed him in the gut. Yeah, he was angry, irrationally so. There was no proof of Wilson's traitorous act...yet. Maybe Wilson had been the hungry one, wanting to arrive early to have a bite before the boozing and revelations went into full swing.

_Nah, _Greg decided, making his way toward the restaurant. Wilson was with a woman_. _

_It was always about the woman._

_#_

He spied them almost immediately. Before the perky young thing in the low-cut black dress could ask how many were in his party, Greg was on his way to the plum colored booth in the back.

Hustling past the bar, his blood boiled hotter with each uneven stride. He snaked around the waitresses, who smiled amiably, showing a hint of cleavage as they took orders, hoping for that big tip. Wasn't that what it was all about? The payoff, that big zinger at the end of the evening?

"I thought we were having drinks tonight." Hand clenching and unclenching the hook of his cane, Greg glared down at Wilson, who was polishing off a dish of clams casino. From the corner of his eye, Greg scrutinized the diminutive dark haired woman seated at the other end of the booth. Her mouth formed a slow smile around the lip of her glass as sipped her wine.

"We are." Wilson gestured at the place setting beside him. "Sit."

"_We_ is the operative word here. It means me and you." He whipped his head toward the woman. Much to his consternation, she did not flinch. "Not her."

She was cute in a 'Wilson' sort of way. Doe-eyes, elfin nose, cherubic lips. All she needed was a Peter Pan hat and green tights and she could fly away home.

"I thought it would be okay." Wilson dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "This is Bonnie. Bonnie meet Greg. He works with me at the hosp-"

"Me," Greg jabbed his thumb hard against his chest. "and you."

"James has told me a lot about you, Greg," Bonnie cooed. "Sit. Have a drink. James has a surprise-"

"I hate surprises," Greg snapped, then turned and walked away.

#

The third beer was nearly gone, and he was just getting started. Yeah, he would show Wilson what it was like to get a good drunk on. They were supposed to have gotten tanked together but, really, it was no problem making it happen on his own. Hell, he'd had lots of practice. Weeks, months...years of it. If Wilson hadn't been distracted by Bessie or Babs, they could have had one helluva good time tonight. The half-full bottle of scotch leaned against Lisa's pillow at an odd angle, as if it too were feeling no pain.

_That's Lisa's pillow. _

_Nope. Not any more._

_Still smells like her. You get a hard-on just taking a whiff-_

"Shut UP!"

_G'wan, you know you want to._

He giggled, closed his eyes, drained the dregs of his brew. Everything was funny. A real yuk fest. It felt nice, though, and he wondered what he might do to enhance the experience. A couple of pills washed down with a delicate sip of _le scotch? _Sure. He fiddled with the vial on his nightstand and found he couldn't unlock the cap, which made the good feeling turn to the dark side. Thunderheads rumbled. Nooo! This was definitely not part of the program. Best thing to do...was have another brew.

Wilson would show soon. Greg was sure of it. He strained his ears, waiting for the sound of the yuppiemobile. Once Wilson got rid of Betty or Bootsy or whatever the hell her name was, he would be knock, knock, knockin' on Greggy's door.

Muddy Waters was growling about a steady rollin' man, his gruff voice making the speakers rumble. The window was open a crack. The night air held an early spring chill. Good sleeping weather. Hopefully the combo of booze and cool temperatures would knock him out. Later. Not now. Now he was still listening for the tell tale sign that a guilt riddled soul was on his way.

It didn't take long. Turning down the music, Greg could hear the purr of a motor out front. After a moment, the sound died away, footfalls against gravel taking its place.

By the time Greg made it down the stairs, Wilson was peering through the window, knuckles rapping against the glass.

"What?" Greg mouthed.

Wilson jabbed a finger at the door.

_Sure...now you want to join the party._

Greg pulled his key from his jeans pocket, shoved it in the lock and wrenched open the door, watching grimly as Wilson shuffled in.

"What?" Greg repeated.

"Maybe I should ask you." Wilson set his hands on his hips. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes and grinned. "Why did you leave like that?"

"I already told you-"

"It doesn't matter," Wilson waved a hand, dismissing him. "Doesn't matter what you told me or what you want. The only thing that matters is the sur_prise_."

Greg's anger was roiling now, like a coven of witches had gathered inside his gut to churn the mix. It used to be easy to keep this sort of fury at bay. Now after everything, after dealing with the Crandalls and the Dennys and all the other flotsam and jetsam, he had a right to vent. Or in this case...explode.

"Why did you bring her?" Greg shouted, the veins in his neck straining, hand trembling around the hook of the cane. "You had no right. Not when we planned-"

"Do you really want to know?" Wilson asked with a haughty quirk of his chin as he took a step forward. "Can you handle the truth?"

"I'm all for it," Greg shouted back.

"Oh, please, Greg. You can't handle the truth," It was a sing-song rhyme, recited with all the exuberance of a kindergarten teacher. Laughing, Wilson wiped his eyes as he stutter stepped back against the window. "You can't handle the truth." His breathless laughter turned quickly to cackling as he sank to the dusty floor.

_Jack Nicholson. "A Few Good Men". _

"You marrying her?" Greg asked, "Living with her?"

"May--be..." Wilson's grin broadened, like the Cheshire Cat. "Why should it matter?"

He was right. Why should it? Something wasn't right. Greg rubbed his chin as his stomach clenched, as his thoughts dipped and dived and crashed into a brick wall. "Get up, you idiot," he yelled.

"You won't be calling me that once you see the surprise."

Greg's breathing was ragged and hot, tearing at his throat. Something was wrong. "Show me.", he said, pushing open the door, glad for the night air, so cool against his sweat drenched brow.

Wilson, damn him, was moving too slow. _Get up, get up! _ Impatient now, Greg stomped his foot against the dirt, watching Wilson rise to his feet and stumble into the night. Wilson's cackles were growing louder and coarser, causing a chill to ride up Greg's shoulder blades.

"Here we are," Wilson crowed, one hand gesturing grandly at the Volvo, like a game show host offering up a magnificent prize.

"It's your stupid car," Greg groused.

"Ah...but what's inside?"

Shading his eyes, Greg peered through the tinted glass. "Nothing."

"Not there...here!" Wilson threw open the trunk and stumbled backward. From inside came a rustling sound, a faint moan.

"Don't be shy," he crowed. "Step right up."

Greg didn't want to. It wasn't that he was afraid, he was just suddenly, inexplicably tired. Home was close and the door had a lock and he could easily block this whole scenario out and go to bed. Everything would look a whole lot better in the light of day. Wilson couldn't possibly be wearing that ghoulish grin and be bouncing on his heels in anticipation...of something. No. He couldn't be.

The rush of cars was like the ocean, moving, flowing, headlights throwing fluttering shadows over Wilson's face. Light, dark, dark, light. Now you see him, now you-

-he was Baggins, short and squat, piggy eyes and scraggly beard and very, very dead.

_Now_

he was Denny, still slim and prim, with a lascivious gleam in his eye.

_Now_

he was Crandall, staring at him, open mouthed, gullible...

_(...so sorry, G-Man. I'm so damn--)_

_Now_

Foster

_Now_

Tessa.

_Now!_

Wilson was all of them...and none of them.

_Now...finally_

Greg was staring at some twisted version himself. He was unshaven and gaunt, his eyes held an anxious, haunted look, his shoulders were hunched, as though weighted down by a fifty pound slab. He looked nothing like a medico, clad in his leather jacket and jeans, yet there was a stethoscope around his neck. This made him angry. He wanted to wrench it off, throw it down, crush it under his heel.

Because it looked so right.

_You wish, old man. Oh, don't you wish you'd turned right instead of left._

He blinked and Wilson returned, smiling because he knew.

Greg moved cautiously closer to the car. An alarm shrieked in his head. Trouble. What else is new? Keep going. Again there was the soft rustle and moan.

"What is it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

This wasn't Wilson. This was the twisted version of himself fused with the only true friend he had. An outlandish, impossible pairing of souls.

_Guess I fucked you up royally too._

"Go for it." The mutant Wilson folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

Bracing his lower half against the Volvo's bumper, Greg took a breath, looked into the trunk and saw...a sea of red. Red ribbons. Shiny, shimmering, _pretty_ things. They didn't belong in the bottom of a car trunk. They should be wrapped around a present, or perhaps used as gentle, firm bonds for a lover's hands...

...which is when he saw her float from the depths, like a mermaid rising from some alien sea. Her eyes were closed, her skin as white and smooth as milk. Red lips parted as if waiting for the kiss that would return her to the world.

_Lisa._

Someone was singing a melancholy tune: bluesy and so apropos. It was Crandall wailing a song he wrote to end their sets. _What would it take for you to take me back again?_

The ribbons rustled as Lisa shifted, sighed and sobbed a little. Her eyes fluttered open to accuse, to seduce.

"Kiss her." Wilson-House growled, more a fierce command than a friendly suggestion. "Kiss her now."

Lisa's mouth opened, the tip of her tongue touched center of her lower (red) lip. Greg couldn't resist leaning over for a sweet sample, a luscious taste-

_What would it take...?_

-and woke with the sun assaulting him through the slats in the blinds. His mouth was pressed against the cool lip of the now empty bottle. Empty beer cans clanked against one another as he groaned and shifted onto his back.

"Wilson," he croaked. "You bastard..."

The stereo was on, the music hateful, stinging, breaking his heart.

_What would it take for you to take me back...?_


	14. On the Road Again

_**-14-**_

_"_On the Road Again" (1983)

Yes, indeed. Women were crafty.

The next morning_,_ he attempted to put the previous evening in perspective, to begin at the beginning and scroll through what he could recall of the past twelve hours.

He did remember the kiss. And a pleasant, potent kiss it was. Tessa was on him as soon as they entered the bedroom she shared with Marietta. Naughty, naughty Marietta. Shit. The woman could not have been half the tigress Tessa was. Foster could give him the skinny on that but Greg didn't want to go there. Maybe one day, when allthis was behind him and he could look at the experience with a less jaundiced eye, he might just delve in and savor the dirt. For now he would deposit this new mystery in that little question box way in the back of his head. The box was overflowing with _wassats? _and _whens?_, its seams in great danger of splitting.

There was time to figure it all out. Those questions weren't going anywhere. They would stick around until he allowed himself to rummage through them and find a way to toss a couple into the shiny new answer box, which had barely been touched.

Tessa drifted into his head again, all fragrant and sweaty and ready. He doubted she was part of a lounge act, like the story went. She probably gave lap dances...and head. Probably made a good living at it, too. She had him fooled, of course, playing up the Miss Innocent act like the pro she was. Sometimes he was as gullible as Crandall.

Shit.

_But the kiss_. Greg stared out the window of the newly repaired van, reliving the moment, as they rolled eastward to New Orleans. There they would meet again with Jeremy Ives to finish up the album.

The kiss was wild and savage, and oh, so arousing. Tessa's tongue, that _tongue_ flicked like a whip across his teeth before dancing further in, meeting his own tongue, moving, teasing, writhing, while...

...her hands probed everywhere, wandering over his face and neck and chest and Mr. Happy's formidable form that strained against his jeans.

_Impatient bugger._

When her sharp, tiny teeth broke the skin of his lower lip, the sharp twinge made him gasp; he recalled his own short, hot intake of breath, the blood dribbling down his chin.

Tessa giggled as she backed out of his embrace and found her purse on the dresser.

_Now...this won't hurt a bit._

When she returned, she was smiling brightly (_so damn pretty),_ waggling a forefinger at him, its tip covered with white powder. He opened his mouth; a question formed on his tongue. But those words scurried away as her legs wrapped around him, her hips grinding and hitching, her expert movements so deliciously slow and hard, driving him mad. Her finger was cool against his lip, spreading a clean, white joy that tickled and burned his skin, making its way inside him, doing its job...

_Ssssh...it'll be fun. I promise._

Then he was propelled through the looking glass, just like the first time, except now there seemed to be many more hands caressing, stroking, making him rise to the tippity top before easing him down just a notch.

_notyetnotyetnottyet_

Eager, warm bodies writhed over him, beside him, _beneath_ him. So many fragrant, nimble entities. Couldn't really call them people, now could he? They seemed alien, _different_. Their numbers appeared to multiply as time stretched on and on...and on.

But this was all his memory allowed. How frustrating it was that he couldn't remember the payoff, the zing went the strings conclusion. It didn't seem fair.

The Stockholms remembered though. He could see it in their sensuous, languid expressions as they gazed first at him, then each other, later in the Jungle Room. And as much as Greg continued to avoid them, seating himself in a solitary corner by the window, while they regaled the group with stories of the crazy entertainment biz, he no longer felt threatened.

Their anecdotes were amusing and, at times, Greg couldn't help laughing with the rest of the group. But the moment Denny's knowing gaze met his, Greg's chest tightened in...fear? Anticipation? Longing?

_Yearning for another go-round, chappie? _

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. The thought made his cheeks burn. He considered rushing off to roam the streets again. But something held him fast, as if his ankles were shackled to the chair.

A new wrinkle had reared its strange, malformed head.

_You liked it_, a whispery voice assured him.

Yes, the feeling of being roused by a multitude of hands, bodies, lips and tongues was pretty damn cool. The memory of feeling safe, cradled and loved washed over him like a warm, gentle wave. It was wonderful, different...interesting...like he had been the center of someone's deranged, yet sublimely stimulating fantasy. 

_You __liked__ it._

If he stuck around any longer the Stockholms wouldn't need to drug him to bed him, which might have been their plan all along.

As luck would have it, the van was ready; it was time to go. Greg grabbed the case containing his piano from the equipment lining the foyer wall, and let his bandmates out the door before him. Denny took the moment to saunter over, set a hand on his shoulder and shake his hand. The older man's eyes conveyed a shrewd, cunning look, but a deeper scrutiny revealed flicks and flecks of anticipation and excitement dancing like fireworks in the distance. _What was to be..._.

_Next time you will initiate the proceedings,_ that look seemed to say, _and won't that be fun? Next time you will come to us behind a closed door and everything will be mutual, as it should be. You just had to learn your part. You've done so well and we're proud of you..._

The attention, the hand on his shoulder, the mesmerizing, searching look made Greg felt warm and good and confident. _Splendid_. Had he changed that much in forty-eight hours? Had he become more assured, more of a man, clasping this secret to him like a talisman?

_No need to confess. Confession was for the guilty. _

He smiled as the miles rolled on. No one needed to know why.

#

They arrived at Catfish Studios late the following afternoon, where they were greeted by Jeremy Ives. A deal with Plum Fixin's Records was in the works, he told them. Now it was time to get down to business.

Exhausted and bedraggled, the band wanted only to collapse in their rooms at Le Fox Gris Hotel and sleep undisturbed for the next twelve hours. The Stockholms were paying. Why shouldn't the guys make the most of their offer? But Ives insisted they head straight into the studio. "No time to waste, lads." This was where they were to put the finishing touches on the "Do What You Do" album.

The studio's exterior was a tired mix of rust mottled aluminum and faded brick, looking more like an abandoned warehouse than a place musicians joined together to hatch their golden eggs.

The dust and the _oldness_ of it didn't bother Greg, but Foster, Crandall and Baggins looked like they would have rather been in Vegas or Ohio or anywhere but here. Obviously an expert at gleaning the telltale signs of trepidation and cold feet, Ives smiled and assured them the dinginess and gritty down-home feel of the place would get their juices flowing.

"There are echoes here," he said, walking Crandall and company through the narrow, winding corridors of the place, "spirits in the walls, entities in the mics. If you cooperate with them, they will bring out the best in your music."

It all smelled of stale beer, old cigarettes and floor wax. The walls were a faded forest green, rife with hairline cracks and black, tar-like smudges. Greg pictured some drunken old blues master tamping his cigarette out on that wall before stumbling out into the night.

Weariness was making them giddy. Occasionally someone would let out a maniacal giggle and another would take up the call, like chimps having a tête-à-tête in the wild.

Moving deeper into the entrails of the building, Crandall's eyes widened with a wonder that seemed to override over his exhaustion. He gawked in unabashed awe at the signed photos hanging on the ash streaked walls: Albert King, Muddy Waters, B.B. King and John Lee Hooker had all recorded here.

Every now and then he would fumble for the pen he kept behind his ear and jot some notes in a yellow spiral bound notebook. The notebook had recently become a fixture in Crandall's world, having taken residence in the back pocket of his jeans.

As always, Foster maintained his cool, scrutinizing the scene with the same jaded eye he used to look at everything. But the sounds drifting from behind the door of Studio 2 caused him to stumble a little, then stop in his tracks.

"Holy shit."

"Time's a-wasting, lad." Ives waved at him to follow.

"Is that who I think it is in there?"

"Who?" Crandall cocked his head, drifting closer to join Foster at the door.

"Is that...Jesse Baker?" Foster's voice was hushed, reverent.

"Yes, it is," Ives snapped. "And I would appreciate it if you would conduct your hero worship on your own time."

"Je-sus H." Crandall whipped his head toward Foster, the two men's mouths falling open at the exact same time. Greg almost expected to hear a cartoon _boing! _punctuating their astonishment. He also expected Baggins to say something suitably stinging to bring the moment to an abrupt halt. But Baggins seemed oddly unmotivated, standing hunched and silent against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

For the first time Greg noticed that Baggins didn't look so good. The first snapshot moment of many to come.

Baggins had lost some weight over the past few weeks. The gut that used to hang over his belt had shrunk appreciably; his Mordor shirt fell over his torso like a baggy black sack. Those dark eyes had lost their cynical light and now seemed resigned and lost, framed by greyish shadows. Once chubby cheeks were pallid and drawn, his hair was a lank, oily mess, falling over his brow in greasy waves.

Greg didn't care about Baggins. The guy's apparent illness inspired no gushing pronouncement of sympathy from him. What Greg did find interesting was the reason behind the malaise. What sort of malady had caused this marked change? Interesting...

_Wow. You would have made a good doctor, looking for symptoms, digging for clues..._

"Let's go, gentlemen." Ives waved both hands at them like he was directing a plane into a hanger.

They shuffled into the dimly lit studio, which was about ten degrees cooler than the corridor. Behind the engineer's booth sat a smiling, ebony skinned man whose teeth glowed as if illuminated by black light. After offering the group a wave, he began setting the dials and levels in preparation for the recording.

Greg seated himself behind the piano, running a hand across its keys, before rambling into a bluesy variation of Cream's "Sunshine of your Love".

"You sick, Baggins?" he asked casually as Baggins settled in behind his kit, his slouch more pronounced than before. The act of walking from the door to his drum set, seemed to have exhausted him.

"You're one to ask about being sick," Crandall scoffed. "You've been whining and complaining the whole trip."

"The guy looks like shit," Greg muttered.

"He does." Foster strapped on his bass. "But if he doesn't want to talk about it, that's his business. As long as he can keep his end up."

Baggins tapped the snare with the tip of one stick, keeping his eyes on his kit like it might just hotfoot it out of the place. His surliness would not be returning anytime soon. Who would have thought that this particular character flaw would be missed?

"He's sick." An arpeggio shimmered beneath Greg's fingers. "He shouldn't be here."

"Are we ready?" Ives bellowed from the booth.

Head jerking up, Baggins eyes traveled the room before locking onto Greg's gaze. There was no anger in that stare, no irritation or impatience.

Only fear.

#

_float like a butterfly_

She liked to sing a song of her own creation in a cooing, childlike falsetto,

_sting like a bee_

moving sinuously across the floor, her arms swayed above her head, fingers ticking and snapping like a Flamenco dancer; those movements were seductive,

_you want it, I got it_

she knew exactly what she was doing.

_Sugar, lay down here with me._

Her name was Faye Baker. She was the daughter of Jesse Baker, the blues legend Crandall and Foster had frothed over prior to the start of the recording session. Once Crandall had gotten a gander at the master's progeny, his frothing had gone to a new, more prurient level. It was easy to see why.

Faye's skin was the color of bittersweet chocolate. She wore a salmon colored dress which clung to her curves and followed the flow as she swayed and rolled her hips. Not a shred of underwear was involved in the crafting of her outfit. Her breasts were like ripe melons, swaying to the rhythm of her dance, the outline of those nipples huge and dark, pushing and poking at the scant fabric. Greg realized later that she hadn't bothered with shoes then...or any other time, which was not surprising.

_Sugar..._

Yes, Faye Baker was certifiable, a fact which was obvious from her dance and dress. But it was her eyes that really brought the story home. Vacant and wild, they stared off into a world of her own design. Crandall never looked deep enough to see she was off her rocker. He just liked how she moved, how she smelled, the way she ran her tongue across her lips when threw her head back. He imagined all the ways they might please each other. The moment he laid eyes on her, he was off in the ozone, way up high in the ether, wearing that loopy-eyed look of the smitten.

Greg knew all of this without even asking.

Faye's job at Catfish was to make the artists feel at home. If home were a brothel, she would be doing stellar work.

_lie down here with me_

She had wandered into the studio during a break, pushing a cart laden with cans of cherry soda and ham sandwiches. As the guys chowed down, she took her place in the center of the room and provided the totally unexpected, but not unwelcome entertainment. Her song and dance inspired Crandall to make that bold move, inviting her out for a drink when they were both free.

_I'm all the time free, sugar, free as the Bolivian wind_.

It was a little after nine by the time the session was done. Greg was exhausted, wanting nothing more than a beer and a burger and a night of uninterrupted sleep. Foster looked pretty beat too and said he was going to call it a night. And Baggins? The way he leaned against the wall, inching along with his head hung low, Greg surmised he might just fall into bed and never wake up.

Crandall moved ahead of them with a spring in his step. "Hey, look alive you fuckin' lackeys."

"What the hell's up with you?" Greg pushed the exit door, which swung open with a bang. The Louisiana night welcomed them with a sultry breeze, singing cicadas, and the smile of a moon that was full and big and bright.

"Gonna see the sights, young gentlemen. Me and Faye are doing the town."

"You're an idiot," Foster said, shaking his head, his long strides putting him ahead of the pack. "She'll spend your money and leave you with your tongue hanging out, man."

Crandalll shrugged and grinned, that old devil moon twinkling in his eyes.

They had locked the van in the studio's garage which, they were told, was a safer bet than parking it on Bourbon Street. A sturdy vehicle with out-of-state plates was, to a certain derelict faction, as much an enticement as a chuck steak to a lion.

With that in mind, they trudged along, well aware they had a bit of a walk ahead of them. The studio was five blocks from the hotel and the lights and sights of the city. It was flanked by lot filled with junked cars on one side, a dilapidated shack on the other. The shack might have at one time been a bar, if the lopsided Johnny Walker sign in the darkened window was any indication.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Foster." Crandall clapped Greg on the back. "Tell him, G-Man."

"You're an idiot," Greg sneered. Slowing his pace, he fell into step beside Baggins, who was dragging his feet in the dirt, trying to keep up the pace. "If you want this guy to finish up the sessions, you better help me get him to his room before you get your socks pressed, Crandall."

"He's doing just fine, aren't you, Bilbo?" Crandall crowed as they turned the corner.

Baggins might have responded had an explosion of blinking, glimmering neon not interrupted, taking that moment to welcome them to town. This was a rush. This was excitement. The noise and the lights and the milling mass of people inspired them all to stand a little straighter. Heartbeats quickened, adrenal glands pumped away. Even Baggins was able to manage a small, squinty eyed grin.

Cajun music, blues, soul, and a touch of gritty rock and roll poured from apartment windows, barrooms and backrooms.

The aroma of fish frying caused Greg to forget about the burger he had yearned for earlier. Now something more exotic and mouth watering was in store, and Greg promised himself to seek it out, as soon as they put Baggins to bed.

#

This was cool. _This _was charisma.

In a rickety wooden chair by the window of a hotel named Le Fox Gris, Greg sat, three floors above the sea of life and lust and touristy goodness that was Bourbon Street. In his lap was a Styrofoam tray filled with a generous portion of Cajun Etouffeé. Simple dish, exotic name: jumbo shrimp and white rice mixed in some kind of seasoned brown sauce. The sauce and the kick of the spicy shrimp really made the meal. But he was no gourmet. He only knew what pleased him. Spearing the last of the shrimp onto his fork, he felt royally pleased. Two bottles of cold beer only added to the joy. And the music filtering through the open window? That was cool too.

The Stockholms had been generous, booking the band into a hotel that was, if not grand, certainly comfortable and clean. The fact that they each had their own room made the stay that much better.

The more brew and food Greg put in his belly, the more appealing the idea of sleep became. He would have liked to have given the town the once over, but his body had other ideas, already heading toward the queen size bed.

The comforter was thick and cushy, decorated with a pastiche of carousel horses, moons and stars. Greg wondered about the strange choice of design. All the rooms would have them. Wasn't that how it worked? But hey, what the hell did he know? He sank into the bedding, the tang of the Cajun Etouffeé still lazing about on his tongue. His head lolled against the pillow as he closed his eyes and sighed...

He was just drifting off when the pummeling on the door caused him to wake with a start and a sharp intake of breath.

_What the fuck?_

The pounding began again, and he was on his way, stumbling across the room, eyes bleary, mouth a sour wasteland, spewing forth a string of epithets.

_This better be good. It better be goddamn-_

Baggins slouched against the threshold, his pummeling hand poised in mid air. Perspiration dotted his brow, despite the coolness of the corridor.

"What?" Greg snapped.

"Gotta talk to you."

"About what?"

"Gotta ask you a question."

"You're sick. Go find a doctor. There's your answer." Greg dismissed him by pushing against the door, intending to shut it tight and return to the land of carousels and half moons. But Baggins found the strength to thwart the effort by jamming his steel-toed boot between door and threshold.

"Five minutes." Baggins voice was a sorry rasp. "Please."

With a grunt, Greg wrenched open the door and watched Baggins drag himself into the room.

"Don't even think about parking your ass on that bed." Greg gestured at the chair by the window. "Sit there."

With a weak nod, Baggins shuffled to the chair and half fell into it, causing the wood to squeal in protest.

"You've got five minutes." Greg stood over him and jabbed a finger at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Go."

Baggins raised his eyes. "You know medicine."

"I know shit."

"You went to school. You were going to be a doctor."

"I got kicked out," Greg growled and cocked a brow. "Anything else?"

"You know medicine. You're smart. You probably know about lots of stuff they never taught you." There was a strange plea in Baggins's tone, though he hadn't asked anything...yet.

"I'm guessing you might get to the point before the sun rises."

Baggins's red rimmed eyes grew wide. "What's wrong with me?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Make an educated guess."

"Go to the doctor-"

"If I get checked out, I won't be able to finish the record." He shook his head. "They'll send me home or put me in the hospital."

The urge to twist the knife deeper, to state how there was an abundance of drummers out there and the group could do very well without him, was almost irresistible. Instead, he took a deep breath, squashing the impulse before saying, "Yeah, so?"

"I just want to get this record done," Baggins said. "I figure if you could give me a clue what to expect when I do finally go to get checked out...things will be easier for me."

Greg gave him a hard look, those mental cogs clicking and whirring before falling into place. "With all the sleeping around you do, you probably have AIDS "

"Um, yeah..."

"If that's the case, and your immune system has been compromised, you might have also developed some type of cancer. Hodgins lymphoma might be the educated guess you were looking for."

"So...check me out." Baggins raised his arms. "Like a doctor would."

"No, thanks."

"Look, I'm sorry for being a royal jerk to you, I really am."

"I'm not a doctor."

"But...you _know_ stuff." Baggins was sniveling now, his voice squeaking like a whiny little kid. "You could at least try. I won't hold it against you if you're wrong."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everyone is real sorry when they want something." Greg's harsh glare made Baggins shrink back and sob a little.

"Take off your shirt and lie down on the bed."

Baggins pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it over the back of the chair. His stomach, once a Santa worthy bulge, was now a flabby paunch.

He made it from the chair onto the bed in three stumbling steps. Laying down caused the creases in his brow to ease, the harsh line of his mouth to soften.

Greg sat beside him, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Baggins still smelled like the road, all dust and sweat and Big Macs.

"You need a goddamn shower," he murmured, checking Baggins's neck and shoulders for swelling of the cervical and supraclavicular nodes.

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up," he said. "Any back pain?"

"Sometimes."

"Night sweats?" His hands moved gently but firmly over Baggins collarbone and under his arms.

"Yeah."

"You itchy."

"Lately...yeah."

He moved his hands lower, down to the abdomen, using his fingers to press and prod.

"_Ooosh! _What are you doing now?" Panic caused Baggins's voice to break.

"I'm checking to see if there's any swelling of your liver."

"Is there?"

Greg checked Baggins neck once more before rising to his feet. "Yeah. Your lymph nodes too."

"So?" Baggins wiped a hand across his brow. He pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard. "Now what?"

"I'm not a doctor."

"_Fuck, _man."

Greg dug his hands into his front pockets and stared out at the twinkling lights and the drunken merriment on the street. "You've got all the symptoms of Hodgkins lymphoma, which means you need to haul ass to a doctor, get some blood work done."

"I want to finish this record."

"You want to live for awhile?"

"I'll be fine."

"Sure you will."

Baggins exhaled sharply. "I never finish what I start. I write these stories that just sit in my notebooks, half done or three quarters of the way finished. I get bored after awhile...with guys too. I leave them. I wouldn't have left Steve. But Steve wouldn't admit he was gay. He was afraid and he didn't give me a chance to help him through all that coming out bullshit." He shook his head. "I could have helped him."

"And this is important...because?"

"I've just _gotta_ do this," Baggins said, his voice a throaty rasp. "I've got to finish the record. I never finished anything important-"

"Hey," Greg snapped, whipping round toward him again, "I don't care about your regrets. If you want to stay alive, leave the band, go home and get yourself checked."

"Not...yet."

With a shrug, Greg returned his attention to the street below. "Then it's your funeral."


	15. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

"One Step Forward, Two Steps Back"

Somehow, while entangled in that sticky web of his dream, he made his way to the orange crate and dug the hated CD from deep beneath the mountain of discs piled on top of it. The evidence of his frantic efforts was everywhere. Jewel boxes had been flung to all corners of the room; some were still intact, while others had their discs rudely evicted from their homes in the melee. Slats of morning sun glinted off those shiny aluminum discs that had fallen on the floor, the edge of the bed, and atop piles of books.

Still in the grip of that dream, he managed to navigate his wretched self to the disc player, play the hated song, even set it on repeat.

_What would it take for you to take me back?_

Could there have been be any further proof of his deep seated masochism?

Wow, just think! If he had fallen, tumbled to the hardwood and hit his head, the very last sound in his ears would have been Crandall's whining question. A hellish proposition.

And hey, who would have found him if fate decided to propel his ass down that merry road? Would Wilson have tried phoning, and after leaving two or three messages, taken it upon himself to investigate? Or would Lisa have been the one worried enough to speed down the backroads, to race up those stairs...to find him?

_Survey says? _

"Lisa", he muttered, facing his bleary self in the bathroom mirror. Lisa had a key to the place. Wilson did not.

Would she care? Would she have wept? Or would she have felt a small, sharp shot of relief?

_Doesn't matter now, does it, old man?_

His leg throbbed in time with Johnny Cash's "Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down". The song was on its third go round.

_Gee, the player must still be on repeat. How 'bout that? _

Greg made no move to change it. Cash's subtle, plaintive performance was like a balm on an old wound, masking that pain but never completely eradicating it.

The vial was still waiting patiently on his nightstand, where he had struggled with it hours ago.

_Good thing you couldn't get the cap off, matey. You swallow some pills, gulp down booze. Voila! There's your perfect send off to that great Sunday Mornin' in the sky. _

He sniggered, scoffed, then scowled. His reflection nagged at him. The diamond stud in his ear seemed suddenly pretentious, the ponytail solid proof he was a pathetic, outdated sham. They were desperate ways of clinging to his youth. Once upon a time they might have been cool. Not any more.

What he should do...

_Yeah? Go on..._

He cleared his throat, closed his eyes,

_deep inhale, slow, cleansing breath_

then faced himself again. What he should do was admit defeat, pawn the stud, shave off the stubble, _get a damn haircut _(as the Colonel might have so succinctly put it), and...

_then what, Einstein_?

Johnny Cash was singing about fried chicken and Sunday school songs and beer for breakfast. Too bad Johnny wasn't here among the semi-living. He could set a spell, croon the old tune along with Brother Greg.

_Oh, such a card, you are..._

A cold splash of water on his face felt good, bracing.

_That's the ticket, now you're cookin' _

After brushing the sour taste from his mouth, he returned to his Vicodin vial on the nightstand and, as if by wizardry, popped the damn cap like a pro. He dry swallowed two...no three before setting to the task of dumping the evidence of his drunken spree, tossing the gaggle of empty beer cans into the recycling bin in the kitchen. Later, when his head stopped throbbing, he would cart the damn things down to the Kwiki-Mart to get back some blood money.

He bid a fond farewell to the empty scotch bottle, tossing it into the trash with the Big Mac Wrappers and ketchup streaked paper plates.

_Gone, gone, goodbye..._

Someone was at the door, pounding on the glass over and over again...exactly like the dream. He hadn't heard a car or footsteps on the gravel. But then Johnny Cash was still preaching to the choir, the music overriding almost everything, except that persistent, irritating...

...pounding.

_Fuck off!_

Wetness trickled down his cheek. A tear.

_Aw...how sweet, a man who can cry. Chicks dig an emotional man._

One brutal swipe from his palm and it was gone.

_And so we go, down the stairs_.

A slight chill ran up his spine as he made his halting, hitching way to the door. It was such an insignificant shiver, he hardly noticed it at all.

_It's just like your dream, old son. Woah, and look, there's Wilson, one hand over his eyes, his nose pressed to the glass. I do believe he is searching for you. What a guy, what a man, what a friend-_

Greg stepped up to the door, fished his keys from his jeans pocket.

_You still asleep?_

No.

_Deep in that dream?_

No!

_Maybe you'll wake to find yourself back in the sack with the brews and the bottle. Such fun..._

The notion of control slipping away, of losing sight of what was real and what was the product of a pickled imagination, was more than irritating. He ran his tongue across his lips, then swallowed hard. It was downright scary.

"What?" he snapped, pulling open the door.

Wilson jerked back a step, head and shoulders twitching like he had been punched in the chest.

"I asked you 'what?'", Greg's words were as sharp and cutting as flying shrapnel, "which is a super secret code word for 'what the hell do you want'?"

They stared at each other for a long, long time, Greg's mouth lifting into a slow smirk at this skewed version of a Mexican Standoff. Wilson tapped one foot, his agitation growing as the moments wore on. Who would be the first to crack?

"I shouldn't have done it." Wilson broke the silence, fussing with a large manila envelope in his hands.

"You complicated what was supposed to be a simple night out." Greg folded his arms and leaned against the door jamb, eyeing Wilson with disdain. "Why would you do that?"

Wilson hefted his shoulders, shifted his stance. "Can I come in?"

"Why?"

"So we can pick up where we left off."

Greg jerked his chin toward the envelope. "What's that?"

"The surprise."

"I told you...I hate surprises."

Wilson pressed his lips together and kicked at the gravel, his brown eyed gaze sheepish yet hopeful. "Can I come in?"

Turning on his heel, Greg crossed the room, ending up at the wooden counter that at one time was home to the candy display and cash register. "Who is she?" he asked, scratching at the surface of the counter with a fingernail.

"Bonnie's a friend." Wilson drew closer as the door swung shut, his footfalls making the floorboards creak. "I thought I could share my news with both of you at the same time, but like most of my bright ideas, this one went belly up."

A slow, sly grin took the place of Greg's acid sneer. "Is she a 'swapping bodily fluids' type friend or a simple 'shoot the shit' gal pal?"

"What does it matter?" It was Wilson's turn to snap. Closing his eyes, he shook his head in exasperation.

"It matters," Greg lifted a finger as he spoke. "because if your news is life altering, then you asked her to dinner hoping she might join you on your shiny new adventure." He paused, lowering his fingers, letting them drum the counter. "Now the million dollar question is...are you getting hitched?"

"I-I came here to make peace."

"You are, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Damn, I'm good." Tilting his chin at the envelope again, he said, "Let's have it."

"I got accepted to med school. UCLA," Wilson blurted out, handing over the slim packet.. "I was going to tell you about it last night...and about the marriage thing. Bonnie wanted to meet you." His now empty hand fluttered at his side like a crippled bird's wing.

"An-nnd whatever Bonnie wants..." Greg spread the contents of the envelope on the counter, giving them a cool scrutiny. "Nice glossy brochure, suitably congratulatory letter of acceptance. They sure do know how to make a guy feel welcome." With one hand Greg picked up the papers, making sure to crumple them good before thrusting them back at Wilson.

"We're getting married next month," Wilson told him, smoothing the papers against his chest before pushing them back into the envelope. "May 12th. We'll be leaving for L.A. at the end of June. Bonnie just got her real estate license and her company is setting her up in their Burbank office-"

Silence.

"We might struggle financially for a bit. But Bonnie will have a steady paycheck and we both have some savings to back us up. We'll do fine." Wilson nodded emphatically, as if trying to convince himself.

"Just so you know," Greg said, "happily ever afters rarely come to pass." He leaned hard on his cane before pushing away from the counter and heading toward the stairs. "You can let yourself out."

"Greg-"

He was done talking. Now it was one halting step up the stairs after another.

"I was hoping you'd come with us."

Greg froze. "Threesomes aren't my style anymore," he said to the air.

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I never assume."

"You could go back to school," Wilson told him. "You had excellent grades at Hopkins. UCLA would take you in a heartbeat."

"Ancient history. Besides, I'm too old."

"That wouldn't matter. The years don't change the fact that you really did miss your calling.."

Greg stared at him hard for one long moment. "No, thanks."

He was a master at the art of nonchalance. Fooling people into believing their actions had no power over him had become his forte. It was a true talent, one he had mastered after years of being set up and knocked on his ass. After a while ulterior motives were easy to figure: just watch how their eyes move, listen to the lilt in their tone. Used to be easy getting one over on the sorry gimp. Not so much anymore.

First Lisa...now Wilson.

A familiar heaviness took its place in the center of his chest, that same weight that seemed to be spending a whole lot more time with him lately. Sometimes it was a boulder. Today it was a simple black stone.

With each labored step, that stone settled deeper into place. Its grittiness scraped against his insides. He could taste its bitter remnants scrubbing against the back of his tongue like steel wool. Nausea assailed him. But he kept his face stoic on the off chance Wilson was still waiting for him to surrender, to set himself up for another fall.

The banister was too smooth against his palm, the silence too perfect. The grit rose until it mixed with his saliva, until he could swirl its roughness around on his tongue. He was so damn right for this role. Wilson was wrong. Truly he had found his calling right here. If this were a movie, the director would yell 'cut' and 'print', and they would have their Academy Award winning take.

Downstairs the door opened. Ah! A coda to the scene. First there is a hesitation of footfalls, then: "You know, you're an ass if you don't at least consider coming along."

The heft of Greg's brows almost let his surprise out of the bag. Wilson's feistiness really threw him. Greg had no idea where Wilson had found his _cojones; _perhaps it was from watching the master at work, or maybe he borrowed Bonnie's spare pair (she was going to be the breadwinner, after all).

He said nothing as he opened the door and entered his apartment.. Shouldering the door closed, he leaned against it and just...listened to the sound of his breathing, to the soft pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. It was a while before he heard Wilson leave, an even longer time before he heard the rev of the motor and the car wheels rolling against the gravel drive.

"Always leave them wanting more," Greg muttered, without the barest trace of a smile.

#

The tan Eames chair was now the most comfortable place in his universe; over the past few months it had become almost an extension of him, molding itself perfectly to his form. But this fact did not make him happy, since it was a sure sign he had been at this job too long.

_Maybe it's time to be thinking about shoving off. Go back to doing what you do best..._

Wilson's chair was empty, which meant the boombox could come out to play the blues, baby. Up now was Walter "Wolfman Washington's "It's Raining In My Life". He could put the song on repeat all the ding-dong day, if he so desired, since Wilson had taken a personal day. When you've got a move ahead of you, the lady of the house putting demands on your plate, and school bells chiming in the distance, who had time for work?

_Damn straight._

So he settled in, tapping his fingers against the armrests. Closing his eyes and tipping his head back, he listened as the Wolfman told the tale.

"I'm going to assume you _are _working today."

Lisa was at the door, hands planted firmly on those hips, brows and lips working together to form a radiant scowl. He hadn't heard her come in, so intent was he on the gritty, lowdown tune. Maybe he would teach himself to play it tonight. Hell, he had nothing better to do.

"I rang your line twice,"

Lisa was rattling on. He liked her angry. That blaze in her eyes could burn down the whole town of Princeton.

"It would be nice if you took the time to pick up your phone."

"Music's on." Greg jabbed a finger at the boombox on the desk. A raging guitar solo was in progress. "Can't do anything when the Wolfman's shouting the blues."

She took two furious steps forward and flicked off the box.

"Sacrilege." Greg clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Come with me."

A corner of his mouth lifted. Her presence set off a meager yet powerful torrent of want, need, and lust, which meant all thought processes had migrated below the belt. Leaving the situation to the whim of Little Greg was playing right into the enemy's very able hands.

"Now." She switched round on her heel, and left the room without looking back.

#

Of course she still wanted him. Body language said it all. It was obvious from the way she rotated her hips when she left the supply room: all he had to do was say the word and the reading club would commence that very night. Those howling, raucous meetings would be back in session, like nothing had ever changed. He played with these thoughts as he made his way down the corridor, batting them about, juggling them one-handed.

Being in control was a wondrous thing.

In her office, the blinds were drawn and the desk lamp was on. The light luxuriated in her hair, swept across her brow, brushed the space between the tops of her breasts. He could do those things with his hands and his mouth, and she wouldn't complain.

She was busy now. Papers were strewn across her desk, red hold button blinked its impatience. Busy.

"I thought I was first in line."

A warning finger shot up as she grabbed the receiver and pressed it to her ear. Her phone voice was pie-sweet, professional. He could change that easily, move in close, let his tongue roam the periphery of her ear. That professional tone would go all breathy and weak.

Control...

She returned the receiver to its cradle, then folded her hands on the desk. "What are you laughing about?"

He tamped the tip of his cane against the carpet as his chuckles subsided. "Nothing you would appreciate."

"Sit." She reclined with an exhausted grunt, crossing her legs, waving a hand at the leather cushioned chair opposite her.

"Your body language, Mistress," he cooed, "says those things words just can't express."

"Your inappropriate comments are about as welcome as dead fish in the heat," she said. "I've got a meeting with the fund raising committee this afternoon, I'm swamped with paperwork, my head aches-"

"So sorry."

"I'll just bet you are." She rubbed her brow. "On top of that I have to pick up Sam from school _and_ I have to deal with you."

"Life's a real bitch, ain't it, Mistress."

She tapped a pen three times against her desk, like it was a magic wand preparing to cast a very potent spell. "James Wilson is leaving, as you probably know."

"Such a lucky soul."

"Would you like his job?"

"You mean...I would be the head of supply and requisitions?" he squeaked, pressing his palms to his chest. "Me with my own honest to goodness department? It's just...overwhelming, just too much" He slapped a hand against his brow and added, "Maybe I should lie down. Feel free to join me."

He didn't expect her to laugh. Not right now when she was all fussy and demanding and cranky. But laugh she did, uncrossing her legs and banging the desk with her fists as she let loose. He watched her, open-mouthed, enjoying this sudden jag of hilarity more than Walter Washington's blues or a swig of Makers Mark. It was as fantastic as a rain of all day suckers and fireworks, as glorious as open bars and fucking in the hay.

Lisa's laughter swelled once more, then slowly, gently quieted to a trickle. She wiped a line of moisture off her cheek with her thumb, still sniffing back tears as she rose to her feet. Clearing her throat, she swaggered to the window and checked that the blinds were shut tight.

_Yeah..._

"I'm not leaving, since this is my office," she told him, a hint of that laughter still lurking about. "But if you're still miffed about my unfortunate choice of words the other day, _you_ can go."

"No," he said, eyeing her with delight as she closed in for the kill. "I'm...good."

"Good." She straddled him and he exhaled sharply, feeling that sudden kick of arousal, realizing how much he had missed this. His hands drifted over the curve of her hips, wandering up, up to trace the swell of her breasts.

She twirled his ponytail around two fingers. "There are perks involved in this promotion you know," she breathed warm in his ear, her teeth grazing his skin.

"Mmm?" Now his hands were exploring the rich, fertile lands, starting with the ass, moving over the thighs...

"You get a raise."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm," she ran her thumb along the inseam of his jeans, then around outline of his hardening cock. "starting right...about now."


	16. The Glory of Love

**-16-**

"The Glory Of Love"

Fact Number Three: hearing your record on the radio didn't suck.

Standing in the studio with his bandmates, while KYRK, 'The Rock of New Orleans', blasted Dynamite's "Do What You Do" over the airwaves, felt mighty good. Greg's fingers twitched as he lowered his head, his brow creasing in concentration as he became one with the keyboard break. It sounded pretty damn fine: so rich and clean over the state-of-the-art speakers. That was his moment, _his _break, his turn to fly.

The feeling was not unlike being in two places at once, as if his clone was rockin' the piano in the other room, while here he stood, mouth agape trying to take it all in. In an odd way, that didn't suck either.

Ives had surprised the band by giving KYRK the exclusive pre-release tape of the single. The music director was so impressed, he immediately added the song to their playlist.

Now it was ear to ear grins, slaps on the back, and beers all around. Ives stood above them, like the god he was, ensconced in the booth with Daq, the engineer. From the looks and smell of it, the two of them were smoking a bit of the expensive stuff, bobbing their heads and howling along with the familiar sounds flowing from the speakers.

It was strikingly different, this feeling of camaraderie. For the first time since joining the tour, Greg felt he was an essential part of the whole, not just the guy to be tolerated-the one who replaced 'the other guy'. He threw off the suspicions, the deceit and animosity, like they were day old newspapers whipped away by the wind.

This time around, Jeremy Ives had earned his money, working the band hard and getting extraordinary results. Earlier, he summoned them to the studio on what was supposed to be their day off. _You're not going to want to miss the surprise_, he told Greg that morning on the hotel room phone. Greg had his doubts.

His tenth birthday party had been a surprise. The guests turned out to be three marine brat kids he didn't know. His mother invited them. She meant well but when they popped up from behind the sofa brandishing their gifts, screaming, Greg was so badly startled, he nearly pissed his new jeans. The presents were stupid: G.I. Joe men and socks with monsters on them. The birthday cake was some hateful orange-raspberry creation. He recalled shoving great forkfuls of it in his mouth under the watchful eye of his father.

Yeah, surprises were bad...

...which was why Greg was not in the best mood when he met Crandall and Foster in the lobby; Baggins was late, which meant he had either overslept or was dead. As it turned out, he was still alive enough to eventually drag himself along to join the party.

Today was their last day in New Orleans. Tomorrow they would head to Vegas, meet with the Stockholms, and play a few club dates that had been booked ages ago Then it was off to L.A. for the album release party and a smattering of club dates before hitting the road again.

The all important east coast promotional jaunt would be the grand finale of this long strange trip. New York was prime; Ives told them the key to Dynamite's success was to garner some serious airplay in that market.

This was fairytale stuff, an improbable dream brought to life by a wave of a wand. Truly the goddamn proverbial success story.

It couldn't last, though. The good stuff never prevailed. There was always that sharp, unexpected turn that led you smack dab into a brick wall.

_Relax._

That's right. The best thing to do now was to relax, flow with it. Besides, the remainder of today was theirs to enjoy the city and celebrate.

And celebrate they would.

#

A Bourbon Street bar in the afternoon was like a beast waiting to exhale. The sense of anticipation lay trembling in the floorboards and wood paneled walls: in just a few hours the night owls would arrive to cause some havoc and bring the place to life.

But for now, the only party people here, besides himself and Crandall, were two old men seated at the corner table nursing their midday glasses of whiskey. A bowl of peanuts sat between them, untouched. From the jukebox in the corner, Cajun music played. The rollicking sound was turned low, as if Clifton Chenier and his band were huddled in a corner of a library, playing their accordions and fiddles at a volume that wouldn't get them in dutch with the librarian.

"I love her," Crandall moaned into his glass, the words diving into the amber liquid and sinking to the bottom.

"The fuck you do." Greg almost shook his head, but thought better of it. It would only cause the room to spin with that much more abandon. Still, he was not as shitfaced as he could have been. It seemed Little Greggy was learning to hold his liquor.

"And she loves me," Crandall said in a voice that held no question, no doubt.

"What are you talking about?" Greg's voice squeaked up an octave at the last word, causing the bartender, a burly man with tattooed snakes on his neck, to give him a leer. "She's fuckin' nuts."

"She's unique," Dylan sighed. "She's...beautiful."

"She will be the death of you if you stay with her long enough."

"Awww," Crandall waved a dismissive hand at nothing before downing the remaining half inch of booze in the glass. "what do you know?"

"I know," Greg raised one wavering finger. "that she...doesn't love you after one night of rolling around with you in your sweaty sheets."

Crandall belched, hiccupped, then poured himself another inch of scotch. "You don't unnerstand." His words were as mournful as wilted dandelions. "I want her to come to Vegas, be with me for the rest of the tour, but she don't wanna do it."

"You are...an idiot."

"G-Man." The desperation in Crandall's tone, the way he gripped his glass and set his unfocused gaze on Greg was mortifying. "you gotta talk to her for me, make her see reason."

"That woman," Greg waved that finger at Crandall, like it was a concertmaster's baton. "has never seen reason in her life." He paused to let the sentiment sink in, before adding, "She's crazy."

"I love her."

"Good. Take her picture, bring it with you, beat off to it when you feel lonely and need some lovin' care."

"Please." Crandall's voice cracked. "You know how to talk to people...to women."

"That's Foster, not me."

"I don't trust him." Crandall peered into his glass, raising his brows as if waiting for some wondrous epiphany to splash out of the booze. "He's only looking to share the wealth."

"And you think _I'm_ safe?" Greg asked, pressing his palm against his chest.

"Yeah."

Smirking, Greg narrowed his eyes. _He don't know me very well, do he?_ In his head, Bugs Bunny sniggered and winked in collusion. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Oh..." Crandall licked his lips, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for his reply. "...yes, G-Man, you're the best."

"One thing, though."

"Huh?"

"When she says no, you're going to forget her."

"Naw...she won't-"

"You will forget all about her."

"Naw..."

Greg pounded a fist against his thigh. "I shouldn't even be considering this after what you did to me."

"I-I didn't." Crandall bit his lip, seeming very close to tears.

"Stop blubbering." Greg slid off the chair, grabbing its back for support. "Where is she?"

Crandall gazed at him with wide, stupid eyes. "The...studio, I guess."

"Drinks are on you." Greg moved unsteadily through the barroom and out the door.

#

He found her in Studio 2, sipping something dark and frosty. Her bare feet touched the closed lid of the piano, the bench tilting precariously backwards so that her back was against the wall.

Music played softly; the loping, lazy rhythm of a stride piano poured through the speakers.

"My daddy Jesse sure do play sweet, don't he, sugar?" she sang, lifting her chin in greeting, her dark chocolate eyes dancing with delight. "What brings you here, my pretty one?"

Something about her expression, the way her eyes traveled the length and breadth of him, reminded him of Denny and Martha and hands and mouths and breasts and tongues. He shuddered, wishing he could put it all behind him, wishing the thought of it didn't make his heart race.

"I want to talk to you about Crandall," he said.

"Such a nice boy." Her tongue flicked against the moisture on the lip of her glass. She frowned at the remaining drink, before quickly downing it. "He needs some more practice in the sack, though." Eyes widening, she let the glass fall from her fingers. It made of muffled ping against the carpet, then rolled under the piano. "Maybe you could give him a few pointers."

"He thinks he's in love with you."

"Ahhhhh, right!" Her teeth were bared, the fluorescents making them gleam brighter than the choppers in an Aqua-Fresh ad.

"He thinks you love him too."

"Whoo-eee, baby." She slapped her thigh.

"What would make him think that?"

"I told him so, my handsome young man." Her words were lilting, ebbing and flowing, falling from her lips like bits of song.

Greg planted his hands on his hips and tilted his head. "Why would you tell him that?"

"Because, I wanted to, sugar." She propelled herself forward so the front legs of the bench hit the carpet with a _thump._ "How can you let a man put his wanger in you and not love him...a little toasty bit." Cackling, she rose to her feet. "I tell you, baby, when I said it, I meant it."

"That's not a good thing, Faye."

"What you saying, blue eyes? You saying that loving someone, even for a second, a millisecond...a twinkle in the diddy of the gods is not a positive thing? I am shamed o' you, gorgeous."

"Tell him the truth."

Swaggering toward him with a dancer's grace, she said, "Guys like Crandall want to believe so baa-aad. So bad it hurts. They'll do anything for a night of believing that love has finally found them. Who am I to ruin a man's fantasy." She ran the back of her hand down Greg's cheek, pursing her lips in the process. "Oooh, but you not that way, sugar. You got a hardness about you and I don't mean down where it counts."

"You ask Crandall for money?" He took two steps back and scowled, feeling the wall at his back. Trapped.

_That's all, folks._

"What makes you think I would do that, _shhhugaaah?" _One long stride put her near him again. Too near. He could smell her rich musky scent, an underlying tinge of body odor and the fruity aroma of coconut on her breath.

"He's an easy mark," he said in a voice too husky for his own liking. His fingers brushed the silver chain around her neck.

"Got a sick old grandma...needed a little help with the doctor bills." She writhed and shimmied, and moved in closer. Before he knew it, her breasts had filled his palms. "You know how it is, honey."

"I-"

His breaths escaped him in tight little hitches as Faye lowered herself to her knees. She fumbled with his belt, opened his pants and wrenched his briefs down past his ass. "Ah, now, there's the real sugar," she growled low.

He watched her make her final preparations, then clenched his fists and closed his eyes in glorious anticipation. Greg hadn't been with many women. A couple of drunken encounters in high school and a torrid three week fling at Hopkins comprised the bulk of his one on one experiences.

Surprisingly, he had failed to convince any of those ladies to do what Faye had every intention of doing right now.

Why had he come here? He couldn't recall. Dazed and aroused, he wondered about those odd sounds escaping him as she took him in, all the way, slow and easy, tongue dancing all along the fruited plain. The thought of tattooed snakes slithering and writhing on the bartender's neck, accompanied her ministrations.

_Fun! Oh, such fun! Make it last...keep going til every golden drop...every...drop is..._

Oh...my...god...too fast, too quick. It soared by in a rush: a blur of heat and sweetness and ecstatic expletives.

Chest heaving, his hands in her hair, he made an attempt at some sort of coherent utterance. But words failed him. Later he would think about Crandall and what sort of woman he had given his heart to. And much, much later he would wonder why he felt not a shred of guilt at what had happened.

The snakes took their leave. Now Bugs was here, dancing, flailing his arms. _He don't know me very well, do he?_

"See that?" Faye raised her head, the milk pearl shine of his come still on her lips. "Now I love you too."


	17. Out With the Old

**-17-**

"Out With the Old"

He had a new system. Out with the old, in with the spanking new version of the Supplies and Requisitions department.

Tired of the wastefulness that continued to run rampant through the hospital like a new strain of plague, Greg created a special 'fun' request form to combat excess. Of course, the fun was for him, not for _them_. All they did was bitch and moan and complain about him. Which was fabulous. Their dissatisfaction energized him. Getting under their skin was never, ever boring. The more petulant their whining, the more powerful he became.

Now...Greg House was a goddamn titan.

Wilson had been too much of a pushover, constantly doling out boxes of pens, paper clips, rubber bands and markers to anyone with a hand out and a sob story.

Those department heads were all greedy bastards, but just try convincing Jimbo of that.

Knocking sense into James Wilson was like swimming upstream wearing lead boots: supremely difficult and, most times, not worth the effort. Greg made every attempt to explain how those vultures were hoarding stuff. They stashed all kinds of shit behind file cabinets and bookshelves, lest someone wise and frugal like Greg House invade their peaceful, supply bloated existence.

Did Wilson ever listen? No. His motto: stay on everyone's good side. No sense rankling your co-workers.

But Wilson was gone now. The department, much to the annoyance of the hospital staff, was under the jurisdiction of Greg House, the new malevolent god of toner, tape and thumbtacks.

He couldn't be bothered typing up his new improved requisition form. Instead, he scribbled it out on a legal pad and made copies, distributing them via inter-office mail to each department.

**GREG HOUSE'S NEW AND IMPROVED SUPPLY AND REQUISITIONS REQUEST FORM**

**YOUR NAME (where to put the blame)**

**DATE**

**DEPARTMENT**

**SUPPLIES REQUESTED**

**(Not enough room? Too bad. DO WITHOUT).**

**WHY DO YOU NEED IT?**

**(Leave this blank and you don't get your stuff. If I don't like your reason, ditto that. Be nice).**

**HOW MANY CURRENTLY ON HAND OF EACH ITEM?**

**(You'd better have only one or none of these things you THINK you need, otherwise, go scratch. P.S. Lying is a very bad thing. Remember what happened to Pinocchio).**

**HOW MANY OF SAID THING DID YOU USE BETWEEN NOW AND YOUR LAST REQUEST?**

**(Lying is a very bad thing. Remember what happened to The Boy Who Cried Wolf).**

**Finally, as the God of Supply and Requisitions, my word is law. There will be no whining, crying or threatening. Bad things happen when you complain to a god. Think locusts, think plagues, think premature baldness.**

**AND! **

**Always remember the old sayings I just made up: Requests are the loathsome gnats I would sooner swat than deal with, AND you'd better have a damn good reason for bothering me.**

**Now git**.

The new improved form inspired many colorful comments directed at Greg via Lisa (no one would dare bring their frivolous bitchery directly to the source). To her credit Lisa did not threaten or complain when informing Greg of the feedback. She simply stated the facts. The department heads were not happy with the prospect of dealing with Greg's demands each time they needed a new box of rubber bands or Liquid Paper. Couldn't he make getting supplies easier for them?

No." He folded his arms and got a little more comfy in his chair.

"Why not?"

"Because they _lie_."

"Hmmph." She punctuated this comment by flipping her hair over her shoulders with two swipes of her hand. He liked that.

"Don't get your silk panties in a twist," he cooed. "I'm doing this for you, baby."

She sighed, turned and walked out of his office, which told him he had won the round. How could she argue with his logic? The fact that he was looking out for the best interests of the hospital and her lovely ass should be applauded, bowed down to. _Kneel before me, mistress!_

But in all honesty, his yen to save the hospital money had waned over the past few weeks. At first he had been on a mission to show up Wilson. Pride inspired Greg's muse to toss him ideas on how to best prove his superiority. He wasn't ambitious, had no interest in 'climbing the ladder', never even considered taking Wilson's place until the job was thrust upon him.

He simply enjoyed being regarded as the best.

But his enthusiasm for this place were beginning to fizzle.

Without Wilson he had no sounding board. Without Wilson there was no one to roll their eyes when Greg tossed out those side splitting, politically incorrect comments. Boredom was like the shadow of an approaching beast, looming larger by the hour. If it reached him, it would squash him, and that would be all she wrote. There had to be a way of making the daily grind interesting for himself. The new requisition sheet was a start. But it wasn't enough.

Like a lonely child in a sandbox, he missed his play pal. Lisa was no help. She was too busy to provide work related diversions. Even their after hours liaisons seemed lacking lately. Her mind kept drifting elsewhere, out into the ozone, away from him. She would stare out the window or at a page in one of his books, without turning that page once.

What was on her mind? It couldn't be anything good if she wasn't willing to spill it

Only once did he sense she wanted to tell him, but before she did he distracted her with his hands, his mouth...

...since he decided he didn't want to know. Not right now. He would find out eventually.

_It couldn't be good._

Forestalling the inevitable seemed the way to go.

She was away for the week. Off to some meeting in Los Angeles where important administrative types went to confirm to each other how indispensable they were in their chosen fields.

_Sooo, what now? _

He had alienated himself from everyone else.

_Who's fault was that?_

He hissed a tune through his teeth. Now It was all about the game, about irritating those fools who thought they could one up him. It was also about keeping his mind off the fact that Wilson was _really gone_.

His friend's absence irked him more than Lisa's growing distractedness. At least Lisa continued to visit him two nights a week. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong there, which suited him fine.

Wilson was another story. Every night he would ring Greg's cell, each call as irritating as a grain of salt in a paper cut. How could Greg forget him with this constant barrage of reminders?

Tossing the phone in a drawer and slamming it shut, was like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. The problem continued to fester and grow...

Wilson's earnest tone drove Greg up the wall. Was there a 'Dummies' book for keeping a long distance friendship going? If so, Wilson probably had it propped up by his bedside, dutifully reading a chapter a night.

**"Chapter One: Don't Let Him Forget You". Rule # 1: Make the attempt to keep a dialog going**.

Which Wilson did. He left voicemail after voicemail, to which Greg had not responded at all. There was quite a collection going. Pretty soon Greg's voice mailbox would be full and then what would Wilson do?

At first it was easy to ignore the messages. The impulse to delete them and block Wilson's number was almost irresistible. But Greg resisted. Instead he found himself nursing a scotch, sitting back with his feet up on the bed, while on the speaker phone, Wilson rambled on. Occasionally Greg would set up his piano and provide a musical accompaniment to the chatter. Sometimes he would play a jaunty rag or a somber funereal tome, depending on his mood.

Wilson's moods ran the gamut as well. One day he would speak calmly and assuredly, like he was luxuriating in a warm bath. Other times a hint of tension marred his tone, making his words seem desperate and sad.

The messages were a snooze; yeah, yeah, yeah, things are great out here and why didn't Greg join them? Boring. Or--he had made some inquiries on Greg's behalf and the Dean of Admissions would like to speak with him. Now that was rich. It sounded delicious, simply scrummy.

And when it all went sour? What would happen after the Dean of Admissions took one look at the crippled medico wannabe, snickered, and sent him on his way. _What then, me bucko? _He could always put his expertise to work. Yeah, he could pump gas for the good folks of Southern California, since he sure as hell knew his way around a petrol station. Selling Mr. Goodbars and Rockstar energy drinks? Yeah, he could do that too. So many options open to him, so many rewards to be gained by taking Wilson up on his offer.

Not.

Gone was gone. No sense staying in touch if the friendship was in its death throes, regardless of what "Relationships for Dummies" professed.

He glowered at the door, letting the tip of his cane bounce against the carpet. The sound was too loud in the silence, in the absence of noise. Silence was for the old, the morose, the dying ones in the ICU. The room should be filled with guy talk, with expletives bandied about. There should be jokes and jibes bouncing off the walls.

Instead there was the tapping of the cane and the ticking of Greg's watch skimming over the silence like a biplane.

He placed two Vicodin on his tongue, rolled them around a bit before letting them loose on an unsuspecting bloodstream. Closing his eyes, he waited for the warmth to dull the pain and, with any luck, put Wilson and Lisa out of his head for awhile.

#

"That's him."

_He is standing in a police lineup. Shirtless, shoeless, without a cane. He is cold and feels more exposed than if he were completely naked. At least then he would have nothing to hide. His family jewels would be a-swingin' in the breeze, as the cool kids might say. But this way, there is still something behind the curtain, something he might not have professed even to himself. _

_He has to admit, the fact that he doesn't have a mouth really irks him._

_To his right are the others, languishing against the wall without a care, since, hell, they know they are not the guilty ones. Besides, none of them are human. They are kindred souls, nonetheless, damaged...unable to express...to speak...to communicate._

_Here is a starfish, balancing on one arm. It should have five, Greg supposes, but one has been lopped off, rending it_

_Crippled...useless..._

_...one of its remaining arms brushes his face. It smells golden, warm, like the sand and the sea it left behind..._

_...then there is lizard, standing upright, balancing on its tail, looking lost, without a tongue to sniff the air, to offer it direction..._

_Crippled...useless..._

..._then there is Buster, the stray mutt he befriended in Japan when he was nine, the animal he was forced to leave behind after the two of them had spent a year exploring the strange new world together_.

_Buster has a hole where his long, black snout used to be. Blood has congealed around the edges, making it look like a pistol blast was responsible for the wound. But, still, those eyes are alive, staring at him in that same hurt, liquid way they did the day he had to leave_...

_Crippled...use-_

"_Yes! _I'm sure. That's _him."_

He froze, held his breath, and stayed as still as an animal playing dead. A collection of suitably cutting words assembled themselves on his tongue, ready to strike. Slowly he opened one eye to give the glare, readying himself to catapult barbs at whoever dared intrude on his domain.

"Hey, Greg."

The kid was here. The one with the guileless smile and his mother's cornflower blue eyes. Damn. By now that smile should have been replaced by the cynical sneer most fifteen year old boys wore like badges of honor.

"Hey...you," Greg grunted, using one hand to push himself up from his slouch in the Eames chair.

"You don't remember my name." The kid laughed.

"I don't care about your name."

"It's Sam," the kid said brightly.

"Congratulations," Greg replied. "Now we can move on."

"Greg's not good with names but he knows music." Sam turned and gave a knowing nod to the man standing behind him. "He was in a band. Remember that CD I played in the car last night, Dad?"

For a moment, Greg speculated he might still be asleep, that the disturbing dream about the crippled menagerie had given way to a full blown nightmare about unwelcome intruders. If he surrendered to it, he might see a monster standing behind the boy, a cackling, grinning entity with blood speckled teeth and glowing red eyes-

"Yes, it was quite good, I suppose. Certainly heartfelt. Never had much of an ear for music, I'm afraid."

Greg straddled the chair and squinted up, pleased to see how the man's expression was a mask of discomfort and impatience. There was no blood anywhere on those perfect teeth.

"Lisa likes all that stuff," the guy continued. "And Sam...I don't know where he gets his talent. He can really play the hell out of the piano." Leaning over, he offered his hand, smiling as Greg reciprocated. "I'm Charles Haversham, Lisa's husband."

Charles Haversham looked like a model for Brooks Brothers suits. A fashionable five o' clock shadow graced his chiseled chin. His nose was straight (perfect), his dark eyes complemented his chestnut brown hair. That hair was styled just so, with just a spray of gray on either temple.

He exuded elegance...wealth...style...

But Greg knew how it felt to have Lisa's nipple harden beneath his thumb. Did that give him an edge? A certain mystical power? What would Charlie do if he knew? Or did he already have a clue? Did Charles Haversham know? Could he smell his wife on this slovenly dispenser of pens? Greg wondered, letting a smile touch his lips, as he searched Charlie's face for a hint, an inkling. This was like a friggin' soap opera.

_Watcha gonna do, Charlie?. Beat me up? Throw a few seventeen dollar threats my way? Hmmm, yeah. _

This could actually be fun, if he was careful, if he blithely danced a slow waltz around the truth.

"Sam tells me you and he are old mates." Charles folded his arms across his chest, surreptitiously checking his watch.

"Your kid is a people person, I'm not." Greg hoisted himself from his chair, then paused to rub his thigh, waiting for the ache to pass. "He should stay that way. It'll make life easier for him. You have somewhere to be, Charlie?"

"I'm sorry?"

"That's the third time you checked your watch since I opened my eyes." Greg took three lurching steps forward and landed in the chair behind his desk.

"Dad's got a meeting in New York, an emergency," Sam explained, his smile taking flight and his eyes going wide. "Blond bimbo bailed out of a Law and Order shoot at the last minute. They need a replacement."

Charles chuckled uneasily, scrubbing a hand through Sammy's hair. "Thank you, Sam, for explaining my plight so adeptly."

"So Charlie's going to save the day," Greg said. "Do you keep your blond bimbo files handy for emergencies such as this?"

"I-" Charles lifted one finger. "That's not exactly-"

"Wow." Greg snickered, shaking his head in mock wonder. "You must have this whole casting thing down to a science."

"It's not...really-"

"Boy, I wish I were you."

Charles grimaced, checking his watch again before sallying forth. "Lisa said you might not mind having Sam stay here for a couple of hours until I get back."

"She did, huh?"

Charles let out a long, exasperated breath, raking his perfectly manicured nails through his hair. He mumbled something terse and incoherent, then pushed his hands through that chestnut field again. He messed his hair...and didn't seem care! This _must_ be important.

"I would really appreciate it. I'll be back as soon as this stuff is straightened out." He took a step back, toward the exit, toward the world outside.

"Leave the kid at his friend's house."

Charlie froze, his mouth twisted, then fell open. He looked horror stricken.

"Zack's not home," Sam said.

"Aw, then take the kid with you, Charlie." Greg shifted a few papers around on his desk, typed some nonsense into his computer. Sure, he could look important too. "This might be a grand educational experience for him."

"I can't _do_ that." Charlie hissed as he gradually came undone. Those eyes had lost their luster, those full, kissable lips trembled and twitched. If he didn't get his way, he might soon melt into a puddle of goo all over the supply room floor.

"He's your son." Greg flicked a hand toward Sam, who was eyeing his father with something close to contempt. "I'm sure he wouldn't cause you no worries. Hey, he could even help you pick the right bimbo for the job."

"I'd rather stay here," Sam muttered to the floor.

"See that?" Charles said with a hopeful, desperate spark in his eyes.

"The kid's only saying it to please Daddy."

"No...really, I'd rather stay here." Sam's words were concise, emphatic.

"You guys planned this," Greg said.

Father and son stared at him hard, awaiting his decision. Charlie's mouth twitched. At his side, one hand clenched and unclenched. Meltdown city, next stop.

Greg considered dismissing them both and heading back to his nap. But Sam's eyes were too much like Lisa's. And Lisa had sent Sam here. He couldn't find it in himself to disappoint either one of them. This time.

So let it be written that the king of tape and tacks nodded once and exclaimed, "Go, Charlie, get thee a woman to suit your needs."

"Thank you." Charles checked his watch one last time, then patted Sam's shoulder twice before racing off.

"He was in a hurry," Greg said softly, watching the door drift closed.

Sam shrugged. "He always is."


	18. Through the Looking Glass

**-18-**

"Through the Looking-Glass"

Baggins slunk lower in his seat next to Greg in the rear of the van, his knees pressed against the driver's seatback.

He was whistling.

Scribbling merrily in his notebook, he whistled along with whatever was going on inside his headphones. At the start of the trip he announced he had no intention of previewing Dynamite's album over the van's crappy speakers, preferring to listen to it later on his own time, in his own way.

For the majority of three, though, the music was a welcome accompaniment to the drive back to Vegas. They each received a copy of the tape that morning from Ives. Waiting outside their rooms at checkout time, the producer handed each of them a cassette of what would become the "Do What You Do" album. The tape looked like any other; there was no artwork, liner notes or track list. It was the music that counted, and every bit of it was there.

Greg's copy was in his shirt pocket. Every once in a while he would trace its outline with his fingers, not trusting himself to believe how far he had come over the past few months.

_Tell it to your dad._

He didn't want to tell his father. The colonel would never appreciate the effort it took to make "Do What You Do"; he would hate the music, call it garbage, a waste of resources, time and money. Greg's mother would be much more liberal. Regardless of what she thought of Greg's missed opportunities, she would be excited over his newfound success. He pictured her tucking the tape away, listening to it when John wasn't around. She would give it her total attention, enjoying the fact he was in the mix, regardless of what she thought of the material. Her face would light up-

He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

_She probably thinks you're dead._

Yeah, at some point he really should call her. Not now, though. Maybe in a couple of weeks, after the release party and before the start the second leg of the tour.

Baggins was whistling, the birdlike noise complementing Crandall's vocal in an oddly agreeable way.

_Where_, Greg wondered, _was Baggins planning to enjoy his private preview of the album?_

He could picture the Hobbit sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet of his room in Stockholm manor, the smell of incense and weed strong and cloying. He might surround himself with flickering candles, as he closed his eyes and bobbed his head to what his bandmates were digging right now.

There was no doubt the troll was feeling better, a strange but interesting development considering how sickly he was two days ago. Now he seemed almost spry, his face was still drawn but no longer held that pasty look. Those grayish circles under his eyes had faded and there was even a bit of color in his cheeks.

At the diner that morning he eschewed the weak tea which had been his morning fare for the past couple of weeks. Instead he ordered food, a real breakfast of eggs, ham and hash browns.

"You're looking better. Get your socks cleaned and pressed?" Greg asked earlier as they were loading the van.

Baggins threw him an acid look, told him to _shut the fuck up_, and refused to offer an explanation. This meant Greg would be forced to dig up the answer on his own.

Sure it was none of his business, but it was delicious. _Interesting. _And wasn't that why mysteries had been created? To stir up curiosity, to compel one to dig down deep into the murk for the answer, regardless of the consequences?

The mystery drove his thoughts, pushed him hard. But driven as he was, he would have to put aside this new obsession for now. _Close your eyes, focus on the music and what you achieved. For now it's good...perfect. _ Soon he would wrap his head around the conundrum again, weave his way through its channels and byways. No way would he let it slip away.

Foster was driving, taking over the spot Crandall usually commanded, which was a drastic change of protocol. Crandall was anal about his van, rarely leaving the driving to one of his mates. But today it couldn't be helped. He was hungover, wrung dry, down for the count. Faye's rejection was the one-two punch that had done him in.

She laughed at him.

Greg got that much out of him during last night's festival of slobbery sobs. Faye's laughter had gone on a good, long time after Crandall got on his knees and professed his love for her. She laughed and laughed, ruffling his hair like he was a little boy.

_Shuuugaaaah!_

How embarrassing.

How great.

_Yeah the truth hurts, don't it, Dylan? _

"Did you even talk to her?" Crandall had rasped through his hiccups and tears. "Did you even fuckin' try?

Greg kept his cool, relaying the PG version of the story with a smirking, self satisfied lilt in his tone. His efforts to make Faye see reason had been as effective as a splash of water on a brushfire. In the end, her stance was clear. She cared nothing for Crandall. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. She was only in it for the fun, the heat of the moment, and what she could get out of the man in the short time they were together.

It was an extraordinary feeling, having the upper hand. How easy it would be to completely fuck with Crandall's head, giving him the intimate details of how Faye used her lips, tongue and teeth to party with the G-man instead of him. But he couldn't. Greg knew he had to draw the line somewhere. As cool as the revelation might have been, did he really want to be responsible for putting Crandall in a clean white place with padded walls and nurses wielding syringes behind their backs? The tour for the album would have been postponed indefinitely. No music, no money. Not worth the brief moment of satisfaction Greg would have gleaned from relaying the whole truth and nothing but.

Maybe in the future Crandall would give up the crown and not be the world's most gullible moron. If this was the wakeup call he needed to see that not everything was cut and dry, that there was smoke and magic mirrors everywhere distorting the truth, then it was worth slogging through it.

This was a most excellent flip of the cards. Every so often during the drive, a stone faced Foster would yell at Crandall to get his head out of his ass and grow up. Baggins was only concerned with Baggins. And Greg? He smiled as his keyboard break brightened every corner of the van. He was just along for the ride.

#

Greg's first notion upon entering the Stockholm lair was to run the other way. The fact that he had been victimized last time hadn't crossed his mind since...

_Since when?_

Since before New Orleans.

_You liked it...remember?_

How could he have forgotten? His throat tightened as his eyes sought Foster's. But Foster wasn't having any of it. Hell, he was happy to be here, his smile was broad as he leaned over to offer Martha a peck on the cheek, as he shook Denny's hand.

Crandall was doing his best to keep a good face but Greg could see that stupid, adolescent tremor in his chin. He was fighting to keep those tears at bay.

For one crazy moment, Greg considered spilling it, taking Crandall aside and telling him about Faye's magic time with his own Sword of Damocles, make that wakeup call more of a police siren.

No, no, no. He had a more pressing problem right now.

He was drawn to the Jungle Room and, like a man in a dream, wandered past the Stockholms and his bandmates to seek it out. Strolling through the corridor, past bronze statues of seraphim, and china closets filled with Hummels and crystal figurines, he made it to his destination and stepped softly into Elvisland. A gaggle of guests was milling around, lounging on the leopard spotted chairs, holding those brown European cigarettes between middle finger and thumb, like they did on the other side of the pond-

Something brushed the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his back. Switching round on his heel, Greg found Denny, whose eyes were warm and welcoming.

"We've missed you," he breathed, setting one hand on Greg's arm as he led him to the dining room.

The table was set. Crystal glasses gleamed, candles glowed. The light from the chandelier was soft, muted by the twist of a dial. Foster, Baggins and Crandall were already seated, Baggins was busy buttering his bread, swilling his wine, the moisture pinkish in his scraggly beard. There were others at the table too. Faces he knew but didn't know.

_You've gone down the rabbit hole, son. It's Wonderland, Topsy-turvey Town, so easy to lose your way..._

Good, rich smells filled the room, promising wonderful fare to fill his stomach, make him sleepy, comfortable...willing.

_You will come to me._

Foster did most of the talking during dinner: about the recording, the thrill of hearing the single on the radio. Denny and Martha smiled and ate, nodding almost in unison at the stories they seemed to already know. Well, of course they did. Ives would have given them the lowdown on everything.

They seemed interested if a bit...distracted. Every so often their eyes would touch Greg's, like a caress, like a question.

It caused him to look down at his plate, stare into his Beef Bolognese and pasta, considered how the parts came together to make the delectable whole. His face felt flushed, and he wasn't sure if he was hungry anymore. But the wine was good. It gave him an excuse for his slowly burgeoning giddiness. A reason other than the obvious.

#

After dinner they were entertained by Josh and Erica, two twentysomethings who made their living as celebrity impersonators at Harrah's on the strip. Tonight the couple had transformed into Sonny and Cher, but, according to Martha, could also do a bang-up Donny and Marie, and John and Yoko.

Their act was amusing but oddly disturbing at the same time. Their mimicry was too close to the real thing. Without that hint of caricature that makes acts like these a goof, their impressions were downright creepy. As Josh went into his Sonny schtick, his features changed and morphed: his nose grew, his handsome features turned plain, almost homely. He _was_ Sonny Bono. Erica's heart-shaped face was now lean and gaunt, Hollywood svelte; when did she sprout up three inches? Didn't she used to be shorter than Josh? Maybe it was just the trick of the light.

Or maybe it was just the wine helping the illusion along.

_Should have known better than to drink anything at the Mad Hatter's tea party..._

By the time "I Got You, Babe" rolled around, Greg had had enough. And by the looks of his bandmates drunken smiles and slouched forms, they were ready for some shuteye too. It had been one hell of a long week.

#

He couldn't sleep. Greg didn't think he had ever been more tired. Still, the minute he let his head sink into his pillow, his mind shifted to overdrive.

Baggins was feeling better. The fact popped into his head again like a Jack-In-the-Box springing from its tin can home. So what?

_Why do you care? If he was half-dead, you'd put it down to lymphoma, AIDS, or whatever is taking its toll on him, and be done with it._

He's feeling better.

"Shit! I know." He jerked upright, realizing Baggin's room was next to his own, and Baggin's door probably wasn't locked. No doors in the place ever were, from what Greg could tell. There was always an open invitation to join another person's party.

He was tired yet wide awake. Why couldn't he sleep? His temples pounded dully as his head spun from the wine. Each time he closed his eyes they would open again, seemingly of their own volition.

The thought of Baggins's door taunted him like a seductress, a virgin beneath a veil. Only there would be no tawdry pleasures beyond it-simply the answer to the big question. It would be so simple to ease into that room, conduct a quiet search while Baggins was well out of it.

_Easy. Yeah._

He pushed himself off the bed; his steps were quick and silent as he left his room and padded into the hallway over to Baggins's door. He was about to make his way inside when the sound of boisterous laughter caused him to stop and raise his head. Two moans, a few 'omigods', a _thump_, and more laughter sounded from somewhere down the hall. Someone was having fun. He reached one hand to twist the doorknob, then stopped again. The moans were louder, more intense. Greg waited as they quickened to a breathy, tremulous crescendo.

He swallowed hard. The sounds were familiar. He knew he had been there once, as an integral part of those festivities...

Each ecstatic cry tugged at him, made him want to return to the scene. This time he would be fully conscious, a willing participant.

_You liked it._

Easy now. He primed himself to think about Baggins. The puzzle, the riddle, the conundrum. His breath hitched in his chest as he twisted the doorknob.

The click of metal against metal made him wince and grit his teeth. Maybe this room invasion was wrong but then Baggins was the one who started the ball rolling back in New Orleans. That was the cliffhanger. This was the turn of the page, the place where all the answers were lounging around, just waiting to be found.

_Now_, Greg bit his lower lip as he eased the door open. The cries from down the hall had reached a fever pitch, a wailing choir squealing out _yes, yes, YES! _But all was quiet in the Hobbit's room, as Greg shut the door behind him, leaving the party behind. For now.

#

The room smelled like patchouli and sweat: a cloying musky sweetness meshed with body odor. Lovely.

On the bed lay the culprit. Baggins hadn't bothered changing out of his road clothes before embarking on his trek to the darkest depths of Mordor. Sweat stains saturated his pits. A half empty bottle of wine lay in the crook of his arm. He twitched, deep in the land of dreams, most likely frolicking in the shire with other corkscrew haired Hobbits.

Gross.

On the nightstand lay a worn paperback copy of "The Fellowship of the Rings". Greg fingered its yellowed pages and considered dunking it in the toilet. _Why? Hmmm, just because_. A little payback, a bit of fun. Did the volume have some sublimely ridiculous value to Baggins? Had some Frodo wannabe given it to him after promising his eternal love?

In the margins and on the inside of the front jacket were strange inscriptions, painstakingly rendered in silver calligraphy.

Would it be worth destroying the book for the pleasure of watching the Hobbit freak out? No, no. Guess not. There had to be a better reason for ruining the tome and Greg didn't have one. The fun would not be worth the consequences, and anyway, it wasn't why he was here.

The bookbag was easy pickin's, sitting open on the dresser. Greg dug in, raising his eyes toward the mirror every so often to check Baggins's prone reflection. He didn't want the troll waking to bear witness to the room invasion. Baggins would never shut up about it and Greg would be the goat again.

It didn't take long to strike gold. Amidst the dirty socks, a crinkled map of Rivendell, a few grime caked cassettes, a notebook, a Walkman, and the Dynamite tape, Greg found his answer: a tan legal sized envelope bearing the legend AAMA-American Academy of Medical Acupuncture.

He sat cross-legged on the floor and scrutinized the contents: a brochure lauding the benefits of acupuncture and holistic medicine in general, and the business cards of two acupuncturists, one in the Las Vegas area, the other in Los Angeles.

Acupuncture, Greg knew, was a stopgap, something to get Baggins through the pain of his illness. It was not a cure, just a temporary measure, like wine, like weed, like shutting out the real world and heading off to Rivendell or Mordor.

He stood, pressed his lips together and stuffed the evidence back into the mess of a bookbag. Sooo, now he knew why Baggins was a spry, chipper little Tolkein head these days.. One or two acupuncture treatments back in Lousiana had done the trick. Did the fact change anything? Make Greg's day brighter? Make the world a better more secure place in which to live?

Hell no. It just answered a stupid, niggling question. But that was enough.

He gave the slumbering Baggins one last cool scrutiny, shrugged and left the room...then stood in the middle of the hallway...listening.

For the moment, the room down the hall was silent, which meant those involved in Sexscapade 500 had taken a pit stop. Is it safe? he wondered, making his way toward party town.

_You're headed the wrong way. Go back to your room, close the door, try to get some sleep-_

Somehow he knew they were waiting, saving up some of that sweet, sweet lovin' just for him. If he opened the door and poked his head in, would Denny grab him in a headlock and force him to do his bidding?

_You like the thought of that, don't you?_

His bleary gaze touched the door, the walls.

_Don't you?_

Yes.

_Kinky sonofabitch. You're out of your mind. _

He wondered if some sort of cool drug might be used to once more set the mood, to get the party into full swing.

_Sick fuck. You liked it._

He turned the knob, pushed open the door.

The scene might have been something out of Satyricon, the scenes without the togas. If you had something to hide, this was not the place to do it.

The room was rich with the aroma of sex, the perfume of that heat rushing to greet him. Straight ahead were twenty or so willing souls, all naked, most in a state of repose. Many of them had found their love connection, and were languishing in armchairs or laying in each other's arms in and around the king sized bed. In the jacuzzi opposite that bed, three women mewed and frolicked, while pleasuring each other in the bubbling water.

A lean, lanky man with a towel wrapped around his waist stepped out of the bathroom. He smiled at the women as he let the towel fall to the carpet, lifting his arms in triumph as they took a break from each other to survey the landscape. Inspired by their squeals of delight, he stepped into the tub to join them, and it took Greg another moment to realize the man with that dark, shining skin was Foster.

"You like what you see, Greg?"

"_Shit!" _he shouted, stumbling as he swerved around, catching himself before falling into the arms of-

"We don't bite...all the time." Denny said. He was naked as the others, his slim, tanned body was honed and toned, looking good even past its prime.

"Close the door."

Greg dutifully did as he was told, feeling like the class monitor in charge of cleaning erasers and emptying the trash.

"Good."

Sonny and Cher were laying alongside the other good folk on the bed, their arms and legs entwined but their eyes were on him. They looked like two languorous lizards sunning themselves on a rock.

"Weren't they fun?" Denny said. "Great entertainers. They'll go far." He winked, as he unbuckled Greg's belt.

"Uh..."

"Usually they take requests but tonight it was their turn to ask for something special." He undid the snap on Greg's jeans, then unzipped his fly.

"You have a suggestion box?" Greg said. "All the cool brothels do." There was cotton in his mouth. Cotton and sandpaper and a raging heat rising from his throat.

"You're funny," Denny crooned in his ear. "I like that."

"Sonny and Cher," Greg muttered, his words falling from his lips like machine gun bursts. "What could they possibly want? They have each other. Oh, well I guess that's true they don't have a pot-"

"You."

"I-"

"They want...you."

_You fuckin' love this, you sick puppy-_

First his jeans fell around his feet, then his boxers. He stepped out of them, over them, moving in slow motion toward the bed, eagerly (frantically) stripping off his shirt as he went.

Cher's smile broadened, those dark eyes promising more than a song, as Greg fell between her and her fella, closing his eyes as they took him away.


	19. A Trip To Gregland

**-19-**

"A Trip to Gregland"

"Can we get something to eat?"

Absorbed in Miss Sally Olma's latest internet blog entry, Greg's response was a non-committal grunt. Miss Sally Olma was a fan dancer/stripper he discovered on YouTube, where her more tame exploits could be seen, savored and critiqued. In no way was he diving into the shallow end of the pool here, since her looks and (magnificent) 38D's were a mere sliver of her overall appeal. She was smart, held an MFA from Yale. Greg wanted to meet her.

"I'm hungry."

To gain access to her more provocative work you had to join her website, "Travelin' With Sal". Forty dollars a year bought you the privilege of bearing witness to her exploits worldwide-with and without her fan. The price of admission also bought you the right to download her poetry readings. A small price to pay.

"I'm bored, Greg."

Reluctantly he turned his attention to the kid. "You should have brought a book."

"I did," Sam said, slumping back in his chair. "I finished it."

"In case Daddy didn't tell you," Greg said, logging off Sally's site, "I am not your cool new source of entertainment."

"I know." Sam shrugged. "It's just-"

"Anyway, Daddy's late." Greg announced, raising his eyes to the old clock on the wall. "It's after five, which means it's time for me to skedaddle."

"Oh..." Sam sat up, clenched his knees, looking suddenly distraught. "What do I do?"

"How should I know?" His cane was waiting for him, leaning against the wall like the patient pal it was. He grabbed it, levered himself up. "Give him a call. Tell him he forgot to pick up his package."

"I can't. I mean...he won't answer his cell when he's busy."

"Wow." Greg tipped his head to one side, his eyes widening in wonder. "Whatta guy."

"Maybe I should call my mom." Sam pulled his cellphone from his pocket and studied the screen. "She's got a special ringtone for emergencies."

Now _that_ would be interesting. What would happen if Lisa got that call? She was probably finishing up a late lunch with the boys in El Lay, spritzing on her perfume in the ladies room, brushing her hair, refreshing her lipstick with that Wine Rose color he found on his shirt collars more often than not.

"No."

"Why not?"

Greg made the trek around his desk and snagged the cellphone out of Sam's hand. "Because I said so and I'm bigger than you."

"You're not stronger, though" Sam folded his arms and kicked a sneakered toe against the desk. "I'm probably a lot stronger than you."

Sam's assistance this afternoon had been more a blessing than a curse. Greg got the kid do his legwork, sending him to deliver bounty to those who had proven themselves worthy recipients of the treasures of Supplies and Requisitions. But departments such as Diagnostics and Radiology, the victims of Greg's wrath, were not on Sam's route. Those deliveries Greg made himself. No sense forcing the kid to deal with complaints the bigwigs wouldn't dare make to He Who Must Not Be Named.

_Bad things happen when you bitch to a god._

"Let's see then." Greg wheeled his chair around the desk and seated himself beside Sam.

"What are you doing?"

"When you make a claim you have to be prepared to back it up." Greg said, leaning his elbow on the desk, his forearm straight up, palm open and ready. "Let's go."

"No way." Sam scoffed as he smiled and took his position. "I almost always win at arm wrestling."

"Who with?" They clasped hands, each straining to force the other's arm down.

"My friends." Sam told him through gritted teeth. His cheeks grew pinkish, then red, then purplish from the strain.

"Really?" Greg let himself be bested--for a silent three count--before retaliating, slamming Sam's arm down on the desk with lightning quickness.

"Oh!" Sam jerked back in surprise, gawping at his hand like it was from another planet.

"Did you think you were stronger than me because I'm a cripple?" Greg sat back, absently rubbing his wrist.

"No...I-"

"Because that would have been a very bad assumption to make."

"I never said anything about you being a cripple," Sam said.

"You were thinking it."

"You did the assuming," Sam countered with a half-smirk. "You were wrong."

Greg considered this for a moment, continuing to rub his wrist. "Who else can beat you," he asked, "besides me?"

Sam shrugged, pouted, seeming somewhat ashamed. "My mom."

No surprise there, judging by Lisa's Xena-like strength in bed.

"Not your dad?"

"He won't arm wrestle with me." Sam swung his sneakered toe against the desk again. "Says it's barbaric."

"Well, it is." Greg gripped the head of his cane and pushed himself to his feet. "That doesn't mean it's not fun." He grabbed his riding jacket off the back of his chair, setting his cane against the desk as he put it on. "But it's not like I have to tell you that." After slipping his pack over his shoulder, he grabbed his helmet from behind the desk, then headed for the door.

"You going now?" Sam asked, his lower lip quivering slightly.

"Yep."

"What about me?"

"Go to the nurses station," Greg told him, backing into the door to push it open. "They'll take good care of you. The cute one with the nice ass is on tonight. Gina...Ginny? Whatever. Try to stick with her. She smells good." The door was open. All the way. Escape was imminent.

"Greg..."

With a _thump_ of his cane against the carpet, Greg snapped, "What?"

"Sometimes...my dad loses track of time when he's on the job. He goes out for drinks and dinner with the crew. Then he goes for more drinks, which is okay if Mom's home." The kid's eyes held a soft plea. "But she's not."

"It's Friday. No school tomorrow. Don't worry about it, he'll remember...eventually."

"Can't I go with you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The question was hardly an annoying whine or demand. It was simply a question, for which Greg had no reasonable answer. He pressed his lips together as he seriously considered ignoring it, switching round on his heel and making his unwieldy way down the hall and out of the building.

"Greg...?"

He shook his head and reluctantly, belligerently met the kid's sickeningly hopeful gaze.

_Oh...what the fuck!_

"Let's go."

#

The five room apartment could have used a good dusting. They had been living here three weeks and neither had made the first move to clean the place. Making the trek to Wal-mart to purchase a vacuum or dust cloths, or anything else resembling cleaning supplies, seemed like too much work. It was too exhausting to even contemplate.

Wilson wasn't slovenly, but these days he had too much on his mind to think about keeping the place dust free. The fact that most of their books and winter clothing were still packed away in cardboard boxes didn't help the situation. The boxes haunted the corners of their bedroom, the living room, and took up space beneath the dining room table.

All were doing their part in adding to the grand dust collection process.

Acclimating himself to this new world of school schedules, course requirements, and the fact he was at least ten years older than his classmates, all weighed heavily on his mind.

He couldn't expect Bonnie to understand or sympathize. Hell, she had all she could do to make it through the first weeks of her new job. To sell houses she needed to familiarize herself with the area, street names, and how to get from Point A to Point B. Finding her way around this alien vista of palm trees and freeways was more challenging than she thought it would be.

They had married quickly, almost furtively, just days before the move. The Justice of the Peace at Princeton Town Hall did the honors on a humid Saturday afternoon in late September.

Bonnie's mother and three of Bonnie's friends made up her side of the wedding party. James invited a few cronies from work: Elias and Bo, two orderlies he occasionally joined for an evening of beers and old movies, and Bobby, the octogenarian who ran the concession stand in the hospital lobby. Bobby's greatest joy, it seemed, was to give James free Hershey bars and regale him with songs and stories of the past fifty years.

_How could I not invite those guys? _James asked Bonnie.

How could he have not invited Greg?

Actually, he did invite Greg. In his own feeble way, he _had _asked Greg to the wedding, leaving invitations on his desk and in the mailbox of the Rest Stop. But James never got an RSVP, not even a 'don't hold your breath.' Not that he expected a response. After the fiasco in the restaurant, he didn't expect anything from the guy. A vague hello in the morning was like sunlight through stormclouds: golden, warm, and a welcome surprise.

James realized he should have been more forthcoming. Should have told Greg about the wedding plans as soon as they had been confirmed. But he figured the surprise might have been fun for all of them. Any normal person would have-

_He's not normal,_ Bonnie had been quick to inform James after Greg stormed out of the restaurant. _Who acts like that?_

James roamed the five rooms, checking the status of the dust one more time, before taking a trek into the kitchen. It was late, after ten. He had been downtown, joining a group of new school buddies for drinks and shooting the breeze. Maybe he shouldn't have. It made him feel like an imposter, someone way out of his league. He was the old married man, who sat quietly nursing his beer during their conversations about music and concerts. Groups with strange names like Sigur Ros and Death Cab For Cutie were bandied back and forth like oddly shaped tennis balls.

James didn't know what to think of this strange new world.

_Greg would have had you laughing about it. Then it all would have made sense._

He excused himself before the third round of drinks, and drove the five year old Neon he purchased last week toward home. Halfway there he realized didn't really want to be alone in that empty apartment. Not yet. He stopped at Philo's Videos, and lost track of time, perusing the amazing selection of Criterion and Kino DVD's in their inventory. He left without making a purchase,his financial considerations outweighing the impulse to buy.

Now he was home, staring into the refrigerator when he should have been getting ready for bed. But he was buzzed from the beer, and he was hungry. Leftovers from last night's pasta meal gave him a hearty hello. Good enough. He placed Tupperware dish filled with ravioli and meat sauce into the microwave, grabbed a Heinekin and settled himself in front of the TV in the living room.

One of their first priorities after moving in was to get cable. Bonnie enjoyed old movies as much as he did. Neither of them wanted to be without American Movie Classics longer than necessary.

Now he lay back on the leatherette sofa that came with the place (Bonnie hated it and vowed they would be rid of it as soon as there was a little more cash to spend), and tuned in a Hitchcock film festival. A scene from "The Birds" greeted him: Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren were racing, racing away, their faces masks of panic and disbelief as the avian populace darkened the skies behind them, clawed at their hair, their eyes, venting eons of frustration and abuse on these two hapless souls.

The movie wasn't really about birds at all, which is what film students in the know proclaimed, anyhow.

_Nothing is ever as it seems._

James speared a ravioli, popped it in his mouth and stared at his cellphone laying on the arm of the sofa. He thought of Greg. How many times had he phoned the guy, trying to talk sense into him? Lately Bonnie was beginning to get frustrated with her new husband's obsession with that "obnoxious lout".

_He's a big boy, _she would assure him, placing the phone on the highest shelf of a dusty cabinet in the kitchen before leading James to the bedroom.

Tonight Bonnie was at a meeting of the Realtor's Association, schmoozing, networking, getting in good with The Powers That Be, which gave Wilson time.

He set down his food, picked up the phone and scrolled down his contact list, coming in for a landing on Greg's number.

The phone rang ten times, eleven. He was about to given up, toss the phone to the floor and continue working on the cooling pasta. But a familiar voice assailed him from across the miles, causing him to jolt upright and drop his beer. He watched in awe as the foamy brew spread like a brownish gold sea at his feet.

"What?" snapped the voice in his ear again...

...which is when Tippi Hedren shrieked in terror, trapped in that damn phone booth, as the birds took turns slamming themselves into the glass.

#

The first thing he did was have the kid leave a message for Charlie. After scribbling directions from the hospital to the Rest Stop, Greg told the kid to recite those directions slowly and carefully into the phone so there would be no mistake about where he had gone.

No sense taking a chance. Greg didn't want to be accused of absconding with the kid, even though Charlie was the one remiss in his duties. He knew from experience how seemingly innocuous situations could be misconstrued, placing an innocent guy before a judge or behind bars. He didn't need anybody getting the wrong idea.

When it came down to it, money in the bank and a Brooks Brothers suit aced a diamond stud and Nike sneakers any day of the week. He had to be careful.

They exited the hospital, heading toward Greg's biked parked in the handicapped zone.

Sam was more than happy to hop on the back of the Repsol. But Greg now had a problem of a different kind. He only had one helmet, which wouldn't fit Sam anyway.

"You need a helmet," Greg groused, as he snapped his on. He stood, glowering at Sam, as if this particular inconvenience was the kid's fault.

"No, I don't." The kid was giddy, bouncing on the seat. "I can hold on tight."

Greg got on the bike, making sure Sam's arms were locked firmly around his waist as they drove off. Two blocks down the road was Rand's Cycle Shop.

They parked the bike out front and stepped up to the door, pulling the handle to find it locked; the staff milled around inside, taking great pains to ignore the two of them. It only took less than a minute of Greg's fist pummeling the glass to persuade the manager to take heed.

"Closed." The guy squinted at them as he pulled the door open a crack. His shoulder length hair was streaked with gray, his skin a tough, leathery bronze. Too much sun; too many cigarettes.

"Kid needs a helmet."

Leatherskin raised a brow. "Can't you come back tomorrow?"

"Promised the kid a ride." Greg tapped a slow beat against the doorframe with his knuckle. "You know how it is."

Sam pouted, shuffling his feet, playing his part to the hilt.

"Alright," the guy sighed. "Come on." He turned and led them inside.

Sam was a good shopper, taking his time, considering the more expensive fare before Greg herded him toward the sale wall. After twenty minutes of careful deliberation, Sam made his final choice, coming away with a yellow, black and silver THH TS15 helmet and the Xelement leather jacket Greg tossed at him. Now he looked the part and wouldn't crack his head open if some idiot ran them off the road.

Folding his arms, Greg smiled just a little, watching Sam head for the door. He had to admit, the swagger the kid affected was worth every bit of the two hundred dollars spent.

#

They stopped at the Burger King drive-through, where Greg ordered two Whoppers, two large fries and an order of onion rings. He stuffed the succulently aromatic fare into his saddle bag, ignoring Sam's contention that it was all going to get smushed.

"It all going to the same place." Greg patted his stomach. "Does it matter what it looks like before it gets there?"

They roared off. The kid was trying to play it cool, but Greg could feel his excitement, how his whole body trembled when they took the turns just a smidge too fast. Give the kid a thrill, he thought, but then decelerated. Safety first.

_Careful. This is Lisa's kid. Lisa's kid._

They arrived at the Rest Stop without incident or accident. Sam's excitement hadn't dissipated and he would probably be riding that high until Charlie decided to remember that 'oh yeah, he had a kid waiting'.

"Get the food," Greg said, unlocking the door of the Rest Stop, and switching on the lights.

"Can we eat outside?" Sam called.

"Too cold," Greg said.

"No, it's great. You can see the stars and the air smells better than in the city."

Greg poked his head out the door. "The city is only five miles away. You're breathing the same rotten air you always do. Let's go."

"Can we eat out here anyway?"

"No."

"Why not?" Sam hurried to the door, gripping the smushed Burger King bag, which slapped against his thigh as he ran.

"Because I said it's too cold. I have an ancient set of wiring. For some crazy reason it treats me better when I keep it warm." Greg held the door open and motioned impatiently for Sam to enter. After locking the door, he headed for the stairs and made the slow, halting trek to his apartment.

Sam clumped up the steps,still wearing his helmet and jacket as he followed Greg into the bedroom.

"Take off your riding gear." Greg said. He removed his helmet, eased out of his jacket, then tossed both of them on the bed.

"Do I have to?"

Greg stared at him for a long moment. "If you leave it on, you're going to sweat."

"Don't care."

With a dismissive wave, Greg headed toward the kitchen.

In the refrigerator, Greg found a couple of cans of root beer, He made his way to the table and slid one across the kitchen table to Sam. The kid was standing by his chair, too intent on studying the studs on the cuffs of his jacket to notice.

"Sit!"

Sam jolted forward, fumbled with his chair and sat opposite Greg. The next few moments were spent scrutinizing the contents of the Burger King bag, and commenting on how badly smushed the food was.

"A mess." Sam shook his head

"Take a bite."

The kid bit into one of the mashed sandwiches.

"Taste any different than the usual crap?"

"No," Sam said through a mouthful of bread, meat, cheese, onions, pickles and sauce. "Still good."

"Mmmph." Greg nodded in agreement as he pushed a chunk of his sandwich into his face. "So, what is the lessoned we learned today?"

"Gross can be good?"

"That's a decent start, keep practicing."

After dinner, Greg's pain, which had been giving him little nudges all the way home, decided to join the party in earnest. It seemed to sprout fingers tonight, strong supple digits that squeezed his thigh until Greg thought a supernova couldn't rival the brilliance of the stars he was seeing now.

He sat in his chair by the bedroom window and, with a wince and a curse, propped his leg up on the bed. He didn't want to lay down, didn't want to take the chance of falling asleep with the kid here.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"I need my pills."

"Uh huh." Sam folded his arms and nodded, the shine of the ceiling lamp reflecting off that helmet.

"They're on the nightstand." Stretching out his hand, Greg made a 'gimme' motion. "Get them for me."

Sam looked around, then wended his way between the boxes of books. He found the vial on the nightstand, shaking it twice as he brought it to Greg.

"How'd you hurt your leg?"

Greg threw him a pained look. "Being on the road when I should have been tucked under a blanket, sleeping off too many beers."

"Oh." Sam eyed Greg warily, probably wondering if he might just keel over and die where he sat. "Don't you need water?"

"No." Greg thumbed off the cap and shook three pills into his waiting palm. With a practiced fluid motion, he slapped his palm against his mouth, propelling the pills toward the back of his tongue. He swallowed, capped the vial, then tapped it against the arm of the chair. "You're sweating."

"Yeah. Guess so." The kid wrenched off the helmet and set it on the bed next to Greg's. His face was red, his hair lank and damp with perspiration. He took off his jacket and set it next to the helmet. "Phew! That's better."

"Dummy. Told you so." Greg closed his eyes, the strong, persistent fingers had eased their grip, their touch was a caress now, gentle and warm against his ruined thigh. He heard the kid milling around, picking things up, laying them down again. There was a gentle clatter of plastic against plastic. CD's. The kid was going through his CD's...

_'s okay, can't hurt anything...'s okay..._

"Greg?"

"Huh?" His eyes snapped open. Had he dozed off?

"What do we do now?"

"Dunno, go read some books, watch TV, play some tunes." His eyes closed again, let his head fall back. "Don' care."

"Can we listen to Dynamite?" he asked with a touch of hesitation.

The kid was holding the CD to his chest like it was some sort of damn sweepstakes prize.

"Gimme that." Greg reached out his hand.

"But."

Waggling his fingers, he raised his voice slightly. "Give."

With great reluctance and a sorry frown, the kid surrendered his prize. Greg turned it over in his hands a couple of times, while keeping his eyes on Sam. "What is your great fascination with this stupid thing?"

"You play on it." The kid was nearly breathless, eyes shining like the moon on a clear night. "You've got writer's credit on one of the songs."

"And look where it got me."

"It must have been so much _fun._" The kid was almost salivating.

"It sucked."

"I don't believe you."

"I was there," Greg countered. "You were not."

"I still don't believe you."

"See how much I care?"

Sam gazed at the CD longingly, then asked, "How come you wear an earring?"

"It's not an earring. It's a stud, like me."

"You're cra-zy."

"Chicks dig crazy, crippled guys with diamond studs jammed in their earlobes."

"I want a diamond stud in my ear." Sam's eyes grew wide, his smile crafty and disarming as his fingers touched his ear. "We can go now and get me one.

"No, thanks. Your mother would have my head on a plate, diamond stud and all," he said. "And your dad-"

"-wouldn't notice until my mother showed it to him. Then he might pretend to get angry for a second. But he really wouldn't care." The words were like chunks of dead wood tumbling off the back of a truck.

If Greg were a different kind of guy, he would have assured Sam that his father loved him and was always looking out for him. He would have said all the things an adult was supposed to say to a kid who was ragging on his parents.

But he knew firsthand about fathers and sons. It didn't take much for a father to ruin his kid's self confidence, to put a black mark through a chunk of his life.

"You're probably right," Greg told him, and left it at that.

Dynamite forgotten for now, Sam poked through the books, every now and then foisting one at Greg for a quick critique. Some were science fiction ("_Brave New World"? You never read "Brave New World"? Take it.), _others were biographies of musicians and authors.

Greg pulled opened the top drawer of the rickety wooden bureau beside him. Beneath some socks and an ancient Smokey the Bear t-shirt, he dug out a dog eared copy of _The Origin of the Species._

"This book is special," he said, handing it to Sam. "Don't skim through it to appease me, then toss it under a pile of comics." He raised a brow. "I want it back and I want to know what you think."

Sam thumbed through it, paused to read a bit, then gave Greg and uncertain look. "Maybe...I won't understand it."

"If it's a word, look it up. An idea, a concept, ask a teacher or your mother," He paused, squinted out the window at the still night. "or...me."

"Thanks-"

Greg's cellphone rang. The sudden blare of the "I'm A Man" ringtone making him forget what he was going to say next. Couldn't have been too important. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the ID before tossing it on his bed.

"Why'd you do that?"

"What?" Closing his eyes again, Greg tapped his fingers together, keeping time with Steve Winwood assuring the world that he indeed was a man.

"Throw it on the bed?"

"I don't want to answer it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

Sam leaned over to peer at the phone's screen. "It's J. Wilson."

"Congratulations. I don't need voice mail now that I have you."

"Maybe it's important."

"It's not."

"Maybe it is."

The song barreled along into its second verse.

"I can answer it," Sam said.

"Are you done?"

Sam shrugged. "No."

"You're as much of a pain in the butt as he is." With a grunt, Greg hitched forward and grabbed the phone. After a moment of careful deliberation, he pressed the 'talk' key, jabbed the cell to his ear and barked, "What?"

The sound of screeching birds caught him off guard, causing his hand to jerk and almost drop the phone.

"What!" he growled again.

A blood curdling scream interspersed with sounds of thumps and shrieks made his eardrum shudder.

"Greg?" breathed a familiar voice over the ruckus. It was a voice fraught with disbelief.

"You're watching "The Birds". You've seen that movie at least one hundred times," Greg said. "Get a life."

"I have a life."

"And a wondrous, magical one it is."

There was that disgruntled sigh. The one Greg hadn't realize he had missed until now.

"The damn movie was on. A Hitchcock film festival on AMC. You can't pass up a Hitchcock film festival," Wilson said, his logic too wise to refute.

Lips twisting into a half grin, Greg glanced over at Sam who was sitting on the edge of the bed, immersed in _The Origin of the Species._

"Congratulations," Greg said into the phone, tapping the fingers of one hand against his knee. "You've just won a five minute stay in Gregland. Speak now or forever hold your goddamn peace."


	20. Oh, The Places You'll Go

**-20-**

"Oh, The Places You'll Go"

The hate and the anger had fizzled out. The feeling of being used and abused had taken a hike. The knowledge he had suffered at the hands of a pair of twisted, perverted pros had packed up and shouted sayonara. Every drop of fight had been squeezed from him until nothing was left but the skin and the bone, the tissue and the reluctant beating of his heart. A husk is what he was; a thin, cracked shell where just the barest trace of stamina remained.

It should have been tragic, instead it was uproarious. Every few moments he would double over with laughter, unable to stop himself. The guys were trying their best to ignore his mania. When he caught one of them looking, he would catch their eye and wink.

He sat in his usual seat in the back of the van, fingers drumming knees, restless, ecstatic, scared. Lost. The sense of being swallowed by the monster that was L.A was overwhelming. The sun shone too brightly out here in the west, burning his retinas straight through to the swirling haze in his head. He didn't care for the feeling. The hot slants of light made his brain hurt, made his bones ache too.

_Because._

He was invisible now. No more secrets to conce-eeal.

_How does it feel?_

He was just as much of an idiot as any of those party monsters, taking that long trek from his room to theirs when he could have just as easily walked away. He knew exactly what he was doing when Denny touched him. Denny shouldn't have touched him.

_You let him do it._

Denny shouldn't have made him lay down with Sonny and Cher.

"Sonny and Cher!" he bellowed and slapped his knee.

"Shut up, Greg," Foster said firmly.

"You, yeah, you, Foster. Ladies man. Fucking your gal pals in the jack-oooo-zee."

"Shut _UP!"_

At some point during the festivities, between screwing Cher and allowing Sonny to perform a multitude of unsavory feats of daring, Greg enjoyed his first toot of blow. Isn't that what the cool kids called cocaine? He figured he might as well use the lingo if he was to be part of the club.

Yeah, shit. He was already feeling no pain when Martha came around with that pretty silver tray. He giggled as he checked his look in the shimmer, his pupils like tiny maws, wide open orbs of surprise.

Three white lines of powder lay against his reflective cheeks and chin, like warpaint.

_(Already high as a kite, young man? And what's that pinprick on your thigh? Just a little something to elevate your mood. Don't tell me you don't remember? Oh...it seems they really do like you high)._

All primped up in her most fashionable June Cleaver finery, Martha seated herself next to Greg on the edge of the bed. Like the most patient of teachers, she smiled and handed him a small silver straw, setting a slim hand lightly on his arm as she demonstrated how best to snort the 'lines'.

_use the lingo...all the cool kids do..._

He remembered the rush, like being jet propelled and set into orbit around the earth, around the moon, and back again.

_Yes...lovely. Then what? What did you do then, my man?_

Then...there were moments of true debauchery, nothing he would have regaled Mom with across the kitchen table.

_Little careless, weren't you? A little reckless._

Promiscuity was dangerous these days; swapping spit and other bodily fluids with people you didn't know could end up costing more than a package of condoms. They said it was just a gay thing, this AIDS, but you never know...

He choked back a hoot. His insides felt like they had been stepped on and crushed, like a steel toed boot grinding a cigarette butt once, then once more for good measure.

_You want to end up like your friend Baggins?_

Baggins, the sleeping troll. Seems like he slept a lot these days, when he wasn't disappearing for hours at a time. Greg watched the rise and fall of the kid's chest, that precious Tolkien tome resting in his slack hands.

"It's all going to hell," Greg said.

No one disagreed.

#

Sunglasses. If he ever made a bunch of money from this crazy endeavor, he might move to L.A. and open a store that sold Gucci sunglasses and other ludicrously expensive eyewear. Not that there wasn't an abundance of those shops here already (judging by how many of the golden crowd were wearing shades). His would be special.

A shop run by a has-been rock star? The possibilities were endless. He could set up a stage, equip the place with a state-of-the-art sound system. Every musical dinosaur from here to the Mississippi would kill to play there, all shading their bloodshot eyes with the most expensive styles of the day. Nothing like a little product placement to keep the place in the black. Hollywood royalty would saunter through, enjoying the rockin' beat, while laying down a grand or two for some high fashion shades.

Could he run a store? The idea was ludicrous, but not so ridiculous that he didn't mull it over from time to time. After all, he would need to do something when the band went belly up. And, yessir, the band would fail. Despite the involvement of the bigwigs and the hoopla over the album, Greg gave Dynamite six months. Maybe a year if they could stand each other for that long.

_What happened to med school, big shot?_

He couldn't picture it right now, not in the shape he was in. The Stockholm's influence and life on the road had done a number on him. The pleasures, the drugs, drinking, the women, no sleep, too much sleep. He needed to get his head on straight in order to handle the discipline school demanded. Maybe...someday.

_Yeah...right._

Regardless of which stupid endeavor he fell into next, music would have to be part of it. Good music, music that made you _feel_ something.

_Even doctors listen to music._

"You ready?"

Can you ever really be ready for a listening party attended by half the hotshots in Hollywood?

"Do What You Do" would be released officially next month. There were still some minor details to be worked out with the record company, plus the album artwork needed to be finalized. But none of this would delay the inevitable.

The gathering tonight was for the those who just had to be on the cutting edge of anything buzzworthy. The invitees were a combination of Denny's Hollywood pals and Jeremy Ives coterie.

These folks were a sight to behold.

Greg stood beside Foster outside the Casbah Club, as the invited guests exited their limos and strode down the red carpet toward the bejeweled doors. They were here to 'make the scene', because tonight this was _the _place to be.

Greg smirked, spying an aging actress from a sappy sitcom he used to watch as a kid, a bevy of A-List beauties, who wouldn't deign to look at him, even though he was 'with the band'. Two members of Def Leppard and an Allman Brother, strolled by without acknowledging either Foster or him.

Nonplussed, Foster seemed to be having a great old time, commenting on the stars, the paparazzi. But when Prince snaked out of a sleek black Towncar, Foster was rendered mute, his jaw dropping in reverent awe. Two massive Nordic looking dudes remained a step behind their charge as he bop-ditty-bopped down the walk. The paparazzi seemed to have picked up the scent, pressing forward, snapping away, those flashes flying like bombs in midair. It had nothing to do with Dynamite, Greg reminded himself, everything to do with getting the shot, making the scene.

He wondered if anyone would notice if he simply vanished.

Prince passed within inches of them, with not so much as a nod or a wink. He smelled like an ashtray stuffed with cigarette butts and flowers.

Greg grew restless watching the bullshit brigade parade before him. There didn't seem to be an end in sight. Ives was over there, milling and mingling, gladhanding the execs who had deigned to cut short their massages or late dinners to show up. Crandall was beside him, bowing slightly when introduced, wearing that 'important' face he kept in his hip pocket for occasions that demanded he be all grown up. He even wore a tie.

"Let's go in, get a drink." Greg nudged Foster and turned toward the door.

"Just wait." Foster set a hand on his arm. "They want to take a group shot for the album cover."

"Shit."

"You seen Baggins?" Foster scanned the crowd.

"Wasn't my turn to watch him," Greg muttered.

"He likes you, trusts you." Craning his neck and standing on his toes, Foster bit his lower lip. His eyes continued to move over the fashionable herd.

"Where did you hear that one?"

"That's what he told me"

"He was probably blitzed out of his mind."

There...over there." Foster shook a finger down the block, where a gaggle of onlookers ogled and oohed from behind a police barricade. Baggins stood on the periphery, dark glasses in place. He slouched against a lamppost, immersed in his book. Greg would just bet it was the Tolkien tome. Baggins dedication to that universe was weirdness personified.

"I'll get him," Foster said. "Wait here." He took off and immediately melted into the crowd.

Greg grumbled. His feet ached and his throat was parched. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes at Ives and Crandall who continued to kiss ass. This was crap. Baggins had the right idea. Greg might have joined him, except now he really wanted that drink.

_To hell with them. They can send the search party out later_, he thought, stepping up to the door. A bouncer barred his way, eyeing him like he was the foulest runt of the litter. But when Greg jiggled his laminate in front of those piggy eyes, the goon backed away.

"Moron." Greg sniffed and headed inside.

He was greeted by the scents of booze, incense and patchouli. Up above, gold minarets swirled and spun a sultry web of bobbing, dancing light, which dappled the walls, the plush maroon carpet and touched the beautiful folks in all the right places.

Waitresses floated by dressed like harem girls, the rhinestones on their 'uniforms' sparkled and winked at him. Some of the sultry beauties wielded trays loaded with an array of beverages, others offered canapés and caviar on crackers. Michael Jackson's "Beat It" was pounding so loud, Greg could feel Mikey's girly tones tickling his ribs.

Running his tongue along his lips, he sensed his restlessness returning. Suddenly he wanted that coke high again, that_ hugeness,_ the feeling that he could do anything, that nothing was impossible. He could cower behind it, make it his armor. Dance the night away without worrying about what anyone thought, chat up the most gorgeous woman in the room without fear of rejection.

_You need a drug for that? Sorry ass simp. Don't even think about it._

The dancefloor was the size of a roller rink. The bar extended halfway down the wall across from where he stood. Already there was a sizeable crowd downing their poisons, intent on enhancing their party experience the quick and easy way.

Above the stage hung what looked like a huge orange stick of dynamite (how _quaint!)._ It was framed by images of the band in concert, in the studio, hard at work making the music that would, with any luck, make some fat cat even fatter.

Seeing his own face blown up to the size of the back of a truck did nothing to alleviate his unease. Gigantic Greg glanced up from his keyboard, perhaps responding to the crowd's reaction to the music or the enticing smile of a pretty woman in the crowd. His mouth had fallen open, his gaze unfocused. He looked dazed and confused. Greg thought he had never seemed so lost.

He had no memory of the picture being taken. It was another world, another planet, hidden cameras everywhere, storing up the evidence.

Suddenly his restlessness turned to panic. It was hard to breathe. He wondered if he could make it across the vast stretch of beautiful people to get to the bar. Would they part for him, like a glorious, sparkling sea of white and gold?

"There he is." A hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Had he almost taken a tumble, chasing after the White Rabbit?

"We're invisible now," Greg mumbled. "Ain't got no secrets..."

"G-Man."

Greg straightened his shoulders, pinched the bridge of his nose as he made the effort to calm himself.

_Snap out of it!_

He found his happy face. "Why it's Dylan Crandall, the man of the hour."

_(breathe in, breathe out)_

"Come on, the guys are waiting," Crandall's gaze hopped to the door, the stage, the throng, then back to the door again. The photographer is outside. He wants to get some group shots."

"You're awfully chipper."

"What are you talking about?" Crandall gripped Greg's arm and began pulling him through the crowd.

"You were so distraught..."

"We have more important things to think about.."

"Wow, all it takes is a decent sized advance and a few powerful cronies to cure a broken heart?" Greg said. "I'll have to remember that, jot it down, put it in my hope chest."

"You are so incredibly fucked up, G-Man." He continued to pull Greg along with a grip that was wee bit too tight. "What the hell happened to you?

"Praise the lord," Greg bellowed as they stepped outside. "I saw the light".

#

The photographer was a big sweaty guy with a gap-toothed grin and a tanning booth tan. His black hair was slicked back smooth, and his gut hung comfortably over his alligator skin belt.

His name was Ricky Chen, which belied the fact he was more Italian than Vito Corleone. He reminded Greg of the dreaded Vinnie the Dude.

Ricky was also a guy who, as Greg's father might have said, was a little fucking light in his loafers. Ricky Tikki Tavi, as he called himself, was having a wonderful time ingratiating himself with the band, enjoying that special challenge of a stoic Greg, and half dazed Baggins, neither of whom could be persuaded to 'lively up themselves'. The two sat beside each other in the back of Ricky's ride. Foster flanked Greg on the other side, chatting and laughing with Crandall and Ricky. The drive was short; their destination was only two blocks away. The plush seats and air conditioned comfort of the Cadillac were the only things that made any of it bearable.

They set up in a back alley a strip club.

_Just perfect_.

Dented trashcans mottled with rust and spattered with a colorful array of slime and gunk would be their guest stars in this scene. Behind them was a fence, the wood splintered, rotting and rickety.

_Perfect!_

Ricky had a wicked good eye for composition. After a few moments of pacing, fussing with his camera and tripod, and murmuring sweet nothings to himself, he began the shoot.

Greg was told to stand with his back to the fence, one knee bent, his foot flat against the splintered wood. His arms were crossed, his face set in a scowl.

"Can this get any better?" Ricky raved. "Such gorgeous creatures you are. _Oh, my stars." _

Ricky's original vision was to have the other three sit their raggedy asses on top of those trashcans, but Baggins was the only one who agreed to do it. He didn't care if his clothes got a bit...grotty. He didn't seem to care about much of anything, except his book.

"Young Baggins is", Ricky exclaimed, "a perfect subject!"

Foster kneeled, with his back to Greg and Baggins, while Crandall held the place of honor down front, hands planted firmly on hips, head cocked to one side. He was trying real hard to look both sinister and sexy. Greg thought he was like the kid who was cool in high school and ten years later looked like he was trying too hard.

With a flourish and a few more cries of "Lovely, lovely!" Ricky got his money shots. Everyone piled back in the car, then they were off to reap their rewards.

#

On the balcony of the Casbah, Greg nursed a rum and coke, and watched the proceedings below.

The music, he noticed, was well received by some, used as background music by others. A relatively small contingent, the actual music lovers in the club, stood by the stage, as the music Dynamite recorded in New Orleans blared through the massive speakers. Sipping beers and scotch, they bobbed their heads and seemed to really be digging it.

As the last note of the final song, "What Would It Take", faded away, a woman clad in feathers, beads and a silver tiara leaned on her boyfriend's shoulder and wept. Greg kept that picture in his head for weeks. That simple display of emotion gave what the group did integrity, validity, proof that the music actually made some kind of difference.

Granted, the woman was probably drunk off her ass. But he didn't want to think about that.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, smelled ashes and sweet flowery cologne as he turned away from the balcony's overhang.

"Nice, man. Real nice," Prince said, shaking Greg's hand before taking his leave, the Norsemen following close behind.

Greg shrugged and scoffed. Wait until he told Foster. The guy would regret sticking like glue to Crandall and the bigwigs by the bar instead of hanging here with the cool kids in the upstairs lounge.

Where was Baggins? He was around...somewhere. Greg set his drink on the table and let his eyes wander the room. Two couples stood at the bar, their soft conversation providing the soundtrack to his search. It was during the second sweep of the tables and candles and paneled walls, that Greg spied his prey. The troll's head was lowered, bobbing gently as he scribbled frantically in his notebook.

"Hey," Greg approached him, swaggering from the effects of the third rum and coke. "You see Prince? He said we done good."

Baggins coughed and continued his writing. "What the hell would that faggot know?"

"Yeah," Greg grabbed a chair, pulled it away from the table. "You're right. He only makes a living doing this kind of thing..."

As Baggins raised his eyes, his face darkened, while his mouth set into a hard line. "I don't want you here."

Pressing his palms against the seatback, Greg's mouth twisted into a sneer. "I'm the only semi-pal you have, toadie. Better be nice to me."

"Don't need you...or anyone else," he said softly, thickly. He might have been drunk, stoned...or something. "Get away from me."

"Great." Greg kicked the chair hard enough to send it crashing into the table, upsetting Baggins's scotch. The amber liquid spread quickly and quietly, saturating his papers.

"I hate you." Baggins eyes filled with tears. His pages were ruined, the ink bleeding and spreading into an indecipherable mess.

High pitched (drunken) giggling hurtled at them from the other end of the room. Then came the Obligatory Footsteps. Trouble usually followed Obligatory Footsteps. The two were simpatico, comrades, like white on rice, like vodka and lime.

"Everything alright here, gentlemen?" the bartender asked. His moustache twitched as he smoothed the bar rag hanging over his arm.

Clapping him on the back, Greg exclaimed, "It's a wonderland of delights, my man. Can't you tell?"

Switching round on his heel, Greg stutter stepped only once as he headed down the stairs to meet Foster and Crandall. There he would listen to the slurred accolades springing from inebriated lips, marvel as Ives waxed poetic about all the magnificent plans he had in store for the group.

_Oh, the places you'll go..._

No one mentioned Baggins. No one gave him the slightest thought.

The next time Greg saw the troll he was lying on the floor of his hotel room, a mix of vomit and blood pooling by his slack lips. His eyes were wide, staring at something far beyond what Greg, the cops and the surviving members of the band could see.

Yeah, things had all gone to hell, a lot sooner than any of them had expected.


	21. Regrets

"Regrets"

They spent longer in Gregland than either of them had planned. It wasn't until he heard the frantic knocking on the downstairs door that he realized a significant amount of time had passed. Checking his watch, he discovered almost an hour had scurried away. How did that happen? It was almost 9:00.

Guess Daddy finally decided to drop by.

_Might a Father of the Year award be forthcoming for Mr. Charlie H.? Sure. Look how much he cares about Sam over there. The kid's fast asleep in a stranger's bed, while Dad was out tilting a few with the boys...or girls...or both. How's that for keeping tabs on your progeny?_

Sam had spread himself across the bed, those long legs dangling off the side, as he promptly fell asleep. Clasping _The Origin of the Species _close to his chest, he looked like a little boy clinging to a prized possession. By his head was the dreaded Dynamite CD.

_Goodness, Greg, what have you done? Corrupting the boy so early..._

Downstairs the knockin' continued. It had slowed a bit, like someone's hand had tired. But after a moment it picked up momentum, _rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-a-tat_, sounding like machine gun fire.

The phone was too warm against his ear. The plastic felt clammy and slick, yet he wanted to keep it in place, let the conversation ride. Give it a few more minutes. But no. The impatient, worried, absentee Dad was downstairs, preparing what would surely be a sob story of some magnitude.

Let the guy stew awhile; let him pace and wonder what was taking so long.

_That could only lead to trouble later. Get rid of this guy...fast._

Ol' Charlie was pummeling the door now. Give it another minute and he might just bash his way through.

_Awww, then there would be blood and glass everywhere_.

Such an unsightly mess. What made Charlie think the world revolved around him? It ticked Greg off to think this lame excuse for a human was somehow...impossibly...Lisa's husband and Sam's father.

_Some guys step in shit..._

After informing Wilson that the demon was at the door, Greg pushed the 'end' key on his Nokia and, with some effort, moved out of his chair. Wilson's stories about school, the professors, the satisfaction of understanding concepts, of 'getting' things right, had irked Greg. He allowed himself to sit for a moment, staring out the window, the road not taken calling out to him.

_How fuckin' maudlin. Get with the program. You are the washed out failure you were always meant to be_.

Where would he be now if he turned right instead of left?

Only fools let regrets control their lives. For him, change wasn't in the cards. Damn that Wilson for pushing optimism on him, like a seller of cheap suits. In the space of a phone call he had put a chink in Greg's armor, a dent in that deep rooted cynicism.

Life, Greg assured himself, was just peachy. He was too old to think of shifting gears, regardless of the drivel Wilson had spent an hour spewing into his ear. Life been mapped out for him. The great wand of destiny had passed over his head that day he met Crandall in that club in Ohio.

_And that's the name of that tune..._

"C'mon, kiddo, wakee, wakee." One gentle flick on the earlobe brought the Sam back to the land of the living. "You hear that thunder down under?"

"...yuh..."

"Daddy's here."

"He's mad." Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up. "He only bangs things when he's angry."

"Good," Greg said. "We'll have something in common."

Sam got off the bed and slipped on his jacket, running his hands over the leather's shine before zipping up.

"Put Darwin in your back pocket," Greg handed him the book. "Survival of the fittest is a concept you should always keep handy."

"Okay" Sam tucked the book away and hitched his pack over his shoulder.

"Listen, he might not let you keep the other stuff I bought you." Greg grabbed the helmet off the bed and tossed it to Sam. "You'll be angry and want to lash out at him. Don't."

"But they were gifts." Sam seemed more surprised than upset. His brow furrowed as he put on the helmet and buckled it securely under his chin. "Why would he do that?"

"It's a matter of pride." Greg led the kid out of the bedroom and gestured for him to head downstairs. "He's your father. You do as he says."

Sam took the stairs slowly, with a reluctance clear as the moonlit night.

I'll keep it safe for you."

"Huh?"

"If he doesn't let you keep the bike stuff," Greg said. "I'll keep it safe."

Charlie was leaning against the window, palms pressing the glass, squinting as he struggled to see into the store; his mouth fell open when Sam waved. Lifting his hands, Charlie took a step back and threw the kid a 'what the hell' look.

Ambling past Sam, Greg jangled his keys. "I got this." As he unlocked the door, he caught the impatient tap of Charlie's left foot.

"Sorry I'm late." Charles breezed past him and Greg caught the unmistakable smell of booze bursting through a haze of Tic-tacs.

"You okay?" Charlie asked Sam.

Nodding, the kid touched the strap of his helmet, then let his hand drop to his side.

Brow creasing in...annoyance, curiosity, or a mix of the two, Charlie hunkered down, those well manicured fingers sampling the kid's leather cuffs. He frowned at the studs.

"Where did you get this?"

"I-"

"We had to ride here on my trusty steed," Greg cut in. "You don't ride a bike around here without a helmet."

"A helmet I can see...but this?" Charles tugged at the kid's sleeve. "He looks like a street punk."

"I like it," Sam said softly, his eyes finding Greg's before looking away. "It was a gift."

"You have no need for it anymore." Charles rose to his feet and turned to Greg. "It was thoughtful of you. Above and beyond, as they say." He extended his hand; in response, Greg folded his arms across his chest.

Sighing, Charlie dropped his arm, letting it swing at his side. "You didn't have to do this, Greg. Do you still have the receipts? If you don't, I'll give you the money." He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a brown leather wallet. A gold leaf calligraphic 'CH' was pressed into its side. "How much was everything?"

"I don't want your money," Greg said.

"I insist."

"Like the kid said, they were gifts."

"Fine." Slapping his wallet shut, Charles gave a small shrug. "Then he'll give it all back. Sam, take that stuff off." He stared hard at Greg as Sam began removing the gear. "This wasn't necessary."

"What was I supposed to do?"

Charlie's brow lifted in surprise. "You could have-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I should have kept the kid holed up with me in that supply room at the hospital until you saw fit to come get him," Greg said. "It would have been the funnest time ever."

"I'm sorry," Charles muttered, looking more weary than regretful. " It took longer than I thought to find a suitable replacement for the shoot."

"Guess you had to do it over drinks, maybe a steak too, judging by the gravy stain on your shirt." Greg said, waggling a finger at the offending spot.

"To be successful you have to play the game, Greg." Charlie raised his chin and tossed out a condescending chuckle. "But perhaps you wouldn't know of such things."

"Games are easy, Charlie," Greg bumped the tip of his cane against the edge of his sneaker. "It's the rules that are tough. You know the rules, Charlie? I do because most of the time I make my own. Life's a whole lot easier that way..."

Some fiendish beastie took this moment to dig its claws into Charles, dimming the light in his eyes, causing his shoulders to sag. It might have been summoned by the calm, assurance in Greg's tone. Or maybe it was the way Sam was holding out the motorcycle jacket and helmet in two hands, like they were offerings to a god.

Charles rubbed his forehead. "It's late. Thank the man and let's go."

After setting his cane against the wall, Greg accepted Sam's offering and thanks, while throwing him a solemn wink. Sam returned it like a salute, shoved his hands in his pocket and followed his father out the door.

Father and son stepped lively over the gravel and dirt toward Charlie's Mercedes. Charlie slipped into the driver's seat, while Sam opened the passenger door. Before getting in, he patted his right rear jeans pocket, making sure _The_ _Origin of the Species_ was still safely tucked away.

* * *

L.A. had been a hot, sticky cauldron of traffic jams, late lunches, too many meetings, and a couple of interesting surprises. She had made it out of there, breathless, but with all her faculties, which was saying something. Now, in her first class window seat, wine spritzer in hand, she hoped to relax and enjoy this flight back east. Once she got home, there would be much to do, a whole lot of decisions to make.

Who knew there would be more to think about heading home than on the plane out? Starting now, the decisions she made wouldn't only affect her. They would affect Sam and Charles...and Greg, as well.

Sipping her drink, Lisa stared out at the clouds, wondering about her own selfishness. She had never been fair to Greg. Why was that? Why was guilt riding her so hard these days?

What they had together was so good, keeping it clandestine was part of the fun. The taboo was delectable. It didn't matter that they had to keep it under lock and key. True, they couldn't take a bike ride in the afternoon, or lunch at the same table in the hospital cafeteria. That was okay.

_Really?_

Sure. As long as they had those nights.

But some external force took exception to perfection, pushing its way in to spoil what was good and right and...fun. Crazy. How can fate twist and turn your life around, tossing you the good times on a whim, peppering them with regrets so strong they made your body ache?

What if she had opted for a completely different path?

Lisa wondered where she would be.

She needed time to think...

Setting her spritzer on the tray table, she leaned her head against the seatback and let the events of the last three days unravel in her head...

* * *

After arriving in Los Angeles, Lisa's first hour was spent collecting her luggage and enduring the bumpy airport shuttle ride to the hotel. Staring out the window at the unfamiliar street signs and the too bright sun, she allowed her mind to drift back east. Her first thoughts were of Sam, which primed her make a mental note to call him later when he got out of school. _Don't forget_. No matter how hectic the day became, she wouldn't allow herself to forget.

_His father does that, promises to call and never does. Or he calls hours after the arranged time and Sam is either asleep or too tired for conversation._

Sometimes Lisa got the impression Charlie planned things that way.

She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms across her chest and allowed herself to think of Greg. A corner of her mouth curved into a smile. Lately she hadn't been as focused on their 'meetings' as she usually was. Her mind had been on this trip, on Sam, on how displeased she was with the frequency of Charles's absences.

Greg felt slighted, she knew. He was like a kid that way, wanting to be the center of her world. Maybe she needed to start putting a bit of distance between them.

Then she thought of their soirees, the particularly heated ones...

_On the other hand_, she mused, her cheeks growing warm, _maybe not._

Opening her eyes, she watched the traffic flow, tossed a sleepy glance at the palm trees.

She would have to make it up to him.

* * *

The administration seminar at UCLA had its moments. The lectures and literature were marginally interesting. The whole thing might have turned out to be a complete 'snoozefest' if fate hadn't dropped by to swing the proceedings and take them in a completely different direction.

Dr. Elliott Messer, the current head of Brandof Teaching Hospital in Burbank, tracked her down the afternoon of her first full day there, going so far as to seat himself next to her at the welcome luncheon.

After introducing himself, he explained who he was and then produced her résumé from the pocket of his tan dress shirt.

She read it over, making sure he hadn't confused her with someone else. After careful perusal, she saw that, indeed, the resume was hers, one of the five she had sent to various SoCal teaching hospitals weeks ago.

That was when Elliott Messer offered her his job.

Amazed and flattered, she could only stare at him, dumbfounded, glad she had not yet put food in her face. It would surely have fallen from her open mouth onto the table, and how embarrassing would that have been?

Messer explained how he had been on the hunt for a likely candidate for a few months. When he came upon her resume, her impressive qualifications made him reluctant to continue his search. He knew after his first quick perusal of her CV, that this was the perfect person for the position.

Still, he hadn't contacted her, since his goal was to try to find a qualified someone who lived in the state. But Lisa's résumé always seemed to be within reach, sitting on his desk, forever in his peripheral vision. While interviewing a prospective candidate, his concentration flagged. He knew the right person for the job. She was three thousand miles away.

Now she was here.

The remainder of that welcome lunch went by in a strange, stifling blur. Lisa couldn't seem to pull her gaze from the sparkling silverware and found it difficult to form a coherent response to Messer's flatteries and questions. She barely touched her Chicken Marsala, and passed on dessert.

Seeming to sense how overwhelmed she was, Dr. Messer suggested they have dinner later to discuss salary (which turned out to be double what she was making in Princeton), the job description, and when she might be able to start.

That evening at Rosario's in Beverly Hills, she drank too much. The wine and the fettuccini, the promise of more money, the chance to live out her dream to the fullest made her starry eyed and giddy. She looked in Elliot Messer's eyes and thought about a private school for Sam, where her son could focus on his music and hone his talents; she looked into his eyes and thought about Charles. How happy this turn of events would make him. Now he would be home more, no more hopping the red-eye for those cross-country jaunts, no more excuses why he couldn't attend Sam's recitals.

_Mistress, who are you kidding?_

Her back stiffened as that voice jolted her from her reverie. Greg. _Oh, God_. It was all in her mind, of course, but Greg did have that habit of barging into her thoughts at the most inopportune moments. The ache in her chest forced her to lay her fork down, her appetite fleeing like a jackal in the woods.

"You okay?" Elliott asked, setting down his water glass.

"Fine." She flashed him a grin, the best one she could muster, given the way Greg was staring at her. She wished he would get out of her head. Then...she hoped he wouldn't.

And later, when Dr. Elliott Messer's hands roamed across her nakedness, his touch so different and new, like a strange, dark carnival ride, she thought of Greg and what he might say about this one night stand.

Then she closed her eyes, imagining this was Greg's mouth on hers, it was his cock thrusting slow and deep inside her.

Which, for the moment, made everything just fine.


	22. Fifteen Minutes

"Fifteen Minutes"

He itched all over; the damn dress shirt and suit jacket made him feel like crabs were crawling up his arms. Add to this a pervasive stink of mothballs emanating from Crandall's castoffs: a sure sign the scratchy, crappy clothes had been hanging in the back of the guy's closet since Grant took Richmond.

To make matters worse, his tie was knotted as tight as a hangman's noose. Foster had helped him with it, tying and untying the blue and white striped thing until it looked halfway presentable. Now, sweating in the back of the church, Greg knew Foster never had his best interests in mind when he offered to help.

Foster enjoyed seeing Greg suffer, especially in this so called 'house of worship'. As long as these terrible clothes were on his back, discomfort would be obliged to stick around. He could only itch and squirm and wait for time to creep forward. And with each stifling moment that inched by, that noose drew a little tighter around his throat.

He wanted a beer. It was only 10 AM, but he would have been more than happy to down a cold one, lick the foam off his lips and call for more.

It didn't matter to him that Baggins was lying in a pricey wooden box, raised on a dais in front of a half-filled church. The troll's body was stiff, its veins and arteries filled with embalming fluid. Baggins was dead, and the dead didn't care about funeral expenses, or botched tour schedules, or the trouble they put everyone through. A selfish little shit, Baggins was. Greg couldn't even yell at him anymore.

_The air is stagnant, as still as the body lying at his feet; its stench is bad but not overwhelmingly vile. He figures it couldn't have been too long since whatever happened...happened. But in a little while it will be nearly impossible to breathe in here, the stench of vomit and decomposition making a repugnant bouquet. _

_Why was he blessed with the privilege of discovering this mess? The troll doesn't show for breakfast, so Greg marches on up to see what the story is..._

_(...he likes you)_

_He should call the others, get the manager, the cops. The note by the troll's hand shouldn't be touched. Evidence...or some shit. He's seen enough cop movies to know you don't move stuff, don't touch stuff. _

_Right..._

_Reaching for the stained sheet of paper, Greg's hand brushes Baggins's fingers. Those fingers are cool, like they had been searching through the fridge, rooting around the shelves for a beer._

_The note trembles in his own fingers, as if it's got its own agenda. He notices the flecks of vomit, of blood decorating the final message. Hell, better than a signature. _

_Just for a moment, he closes his eyes, breathes deeply...then looks down at the paper and drinks in the words: _

_"The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
And I must follow, if I can,  
Pursuing it with eager feet,  
Until it joins some larger way  
Where many paths and errands meet.  
And whither then? I cannot say."_

_**It doesn't hurt anymore.**_

_He reads it again, taking his time, hearing Baggins's croaky little voice doing the recitation in his head. He feels time pulling at him. Footsteps in the hall, Baggins's lips slack and crusted with filth. He folds the note in half...in quarters...stuffs it deep into his jeans pocket, then rubs his eyes...and leaves the room..._

No reason to feel sorry for the troll. Baggins was finally where he wanted to be, which was fine. The poem, Greg learned after doing the research, was from "The Lord of the Rings", all except that last line, which was Baggins's last hurrah, the troll's reason for saying bye bye. No surprise there.

Cowardly shit.

The note had found a place in Greg's wallet, and there it would remain. He had no plans to show it to anyone. Baggins wanted to live like a mysterious freakazoid? Now in death he could be that dark figure who just...slipped away. Was that a bad thing? _It doesn't hurt anymore._ Was that the sort of closure the troll's family needed? Let them think it was an accident. A bit too much of the bubbly, one pill more and...oops, you're outta here, pally. Too much tippling did him in...let them all think it, believe it.

Baggins would be royally pissed, wherever he was.

Not that any of this mattered, Greg thought. After all, dead was dead. Who cared how?

Baggins planned his suicide at an inconvenient time. The selfish ingrate could have at least waited until Dynamite finished the tour.

_Where would the fucking drama be in that?_

Greg decided he could be equally as selfish.

The funeral was boring. Foster wheedled Greg into attending, and Greg was here, not because he gave a shit, but because it was part of the job. He considered sitting out the rest of the church crapola and heading off to the cemetery before the contingent of weepers arrived. That he could deal with, this fawning over a husk in a coffin was a total fucking waste (although it was cool to have Led Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven" floating gently on the incense scented air).

Why did they have to dress Baggins up like a fucking Ken doll? That navy blue suit was not what the troll would have chosen to wear on the slow ride to Nowheresville. Where was the Mordor shirt? They should have at least tucked it into the coffin with him. The drumsticks were there, though. At least they remembered the drumsticks. The sticks flanked him on either side, like soldiers marching Baggins off to Rivendell.

Mommy Baggins looked like a dock worker, with thick arms, a square jaw and graying black curls framing her craggy face. She stood off to one side, clutching a tissue in a meaty fist as she greeted each mourner in turn. Now and then she touched the tissue to her cheek.

If there was a Daddy Baggins's in the house, Greg couldn't pick him out.

The Stockholms sent their condolences along with flowers. Denny also sent a personal apology, saying he was so sorry he could not attend. It was an apology without an explanation. But you couldn't fault the guy. He was tied up with business and wheeling and dealing and seeking out the next pretty, hapless patsy he could seduce. All that took time and a boatload of energy.

Greg didn't like the church. Never did. Its high ceilings and stained glass windows made him feel someone was always watching.

_...those angels we have heard on high know what you did..._

The cloyingly sweet smells of incense and flowers turned his stomach. Songs and sermons echoed in the vastness, drifting up to the lofty perches, as if to commiserate with the Great Art Thou Hisself,. They unnerved him.

None of it had changed.

His mother used to drag him to this hallowed place, to sing the hymns and take communion. It was all a bunch of horseshit, but he did it to please her, and so his father wouldn't give him hell. Not that the Colonel ever felt the need to join them. The old man got religion by default.

His parents' house was about a mile from here, the cemetery one block past it. He could start out now, stroll by, maybe catch his mother's eye through the kitchen window. If the old Saturday schedule had not deviated, she should be washing the breakfast dishes about now. He could give her a quick hello, at least let her know he was still alive, then make his way to pay his final respects to the troll.

The plan made him feel better. Even the itching let up...a little.

Yeah, he would go. He turned toward the door without saying farewell, pushing his way out into the early summer heat.

* * *

The humidity was high, and the sun was already in the mood for a tussle, beating on his neck and the top of his head with all the gusto of a John Bonham drum solo.

He slung Crandall's jacket over one shoulder, while scratching his chest and the back of his thigh, like a dog with fleas. The heat made the itching almost painful. He wondered if his mother had one of his old suits he could wear instead of this horrible _thing_ of Crandall's.

What if Mom wasn't by the window? Could he even get in the house? Maybe times had changed. He pictured himself waltzing through the door, like nothing had happened, like he had never left.

_Not likely, skinny boy._

The neighborhood hadn't changed too much. Although it made him chuckle to see that Palmer's Luncheonette was now Gafford's Adult Video Emporium. Only two blocks from the church and one block from Gallagher's bar, the change probably caused a whole lot of ruckus here in Eldridge city.

Greg snorted. The old man probably had a boatload to say about it. Probably bitched to the chamber of commerce and the town hall. This time, it seemed, the squeaky wheel hadn't gotten the grease.

Good.

He turned the corner, wiped his sleeve across his brow and slowed his step. The buzz of a lawnmower broke the silence of the sleepy morning like the arrival of an unwelcome guest. The noise was coming from the next block, and it was entirely possible that his father was the culprit.

Greg had forgotten the Colonel's penchant for giving the lawn a right good mowing after Saturday's pancakes and eggs.

He considered turning back, taking sanctuary in the church with Baggins's corpse and the priest's holy rolling. But then...what good was living without taking chances. Hell, Baggins's had made the decision that he'd had enough...of everything. Greg hadn't reached that point yet.

Maybe he could start over, he thought as he approached the lawn. Or as Ives might say: take it from the top, lad.

His father's expression told him he was wrong on so many counts.

"What do you want?"

For a moment, Greg wanted to tell the old man everything..._everything _about the recording sessions, New Orleans, The Jungle Room, the sex, the drugs, The Silver Bucket casino and Vinnie the Dude_. _The expression on the Colonel's face would be worth the lambasting--

_Suddenly he is fifteen again, standing in this yard in front of his old man. His mother is in the kitchen making chicken salad sandwiches. Greg isn't hungry. All the sass had been beat out of him the night before, and he just can't think about eating. He makes the attempt to dredge up some words that will work magic, that will make everything all better..._

"I asked you a question." The old man had sweat stains down the front of his shirt. His brush cut glistened with perspiration.

"I thought I could change my clothes," Greg said. "I'm going to a funeral."

"What's wrong with that suit?"

"Itchy."

The Colonel draped one arm around the handle of the mower, like it was an old and dear friend. "So after a year's absence, after a year of worrying your mother sick, this is all you have to say?"

"I didn't think you'd want to hear anything but the answer to your question."

"You're still a smartass." The Colonel nodded, eyeing him with disdain. "I can see that hasn't changed."

"So..." Greg gestured toward the house. "would it be alright?"

"Where have you been?"

_I've been everywhere, man._

"Out west with the band. Playing music."

Somewhere a bird twittered, a bicycle bell _ching-a chinged._

"So you cut short your _band_ business to pay respects to some-"

"He was our drummer. He-" Nebulous fingers reached around Greg's throat and squeezed, causing the rest of the words to stick in his gullet. He stared at the grass, rolled a twig under his heel, then raised his head.

The Colonel's eyes were on him, jaw working as one finger tapped a slow rhythm against his pal the mower. He appeared to consider a great many things before speaking again. "Your mother is out back tending her garden. If you want to stay, to do what's right, go back to school, forget this stupidity you've involved yourself in, you can go get that big sloppy welcome home."

It would be easy to do just that, to put the band behind him, call it a mistake, a youthful, rebellious whim. But words were falling from his lips belying these facts, piling that final pound of dirt on his own coffin. "We made a record...it's out next week...we're going to New York to pro-"

The Colonel wrenched the starter of the mower, the buzz obliterating the remainder of Greg's spiel. "Get the hell out of here." he shouted over the din. He turned the mower around, pushing it nearer to the hedges, where the grass was overgrown.

#

The new drummer's name was Eddie McEvoy. He was part of Denny's stable of session guys, who played in lounges and clubs along the strip. Denny signed him for the remainder of the promotional tour. After that, it was back to the bright lights and big city for Sweaty Eddie (so named by Foster because of Eddie's penchant to sweat more than all the other band members put together).

Eddie was a chubby middle-aged buffoon who looked like someone's hipster dad. He wore Bonjour jeans and open-necked shirts that revealed a thick mass of chest hair and a garish silver cross. One drunken evening, Greg mentioned that plaid pants and a golf shirt might suit him better. This inspired Eddie to grab Greg by the collar and throw him off the barstool, sending him sailing into the wall.

Baggins would never have dared do that.

Greg suffered a few cuts on his head and a case of wounded pride, inspiring him to steer clear of Sweaty Eddie. In another life, in another time, he would have concocted a few dozen ways to get even. But not now, not when he was so close to saying sayonara to this shitty life. All he wanted was to make it through the rest of the tour without getting tossed into jail or have anyone else die on him. He didn't think that was too much to ask.

Eddie McEvoy's hair was Grecian Formula brown and he played drums like a mechanic fixing a washing machine. Technically excellent but artistically barren. Some of his favorite pleasures were orange soda mixed with vodka, and bedding women who didn't bathe, because, he whispered conspiratorially, he liked their 'funk'.

Greg wondered how someone so revolting could be that stuck on himself.

The record was released to stores as they traveled east. Along the way they honored club dates Denny had booked weeks prior to Baggins's death. The dates had been shuffled around, some rescheduled, others cancelled due to the unfortunate, unavoidable 'problem'.

But business was business, and it all worked out just fine.

The band rolled through their sets, like they always did. But something other than Sweaty Eddie's presence was different. There was a curiosity factor now. People seemed to know who they were. The tragedy made the band interesting. Its plight had been noted in the Life section of _USA Today_, the reviewer giving the album three out of five stars, calling it a solid first effort, a fitting tribute to a fallen mate.

Suddenly they were garnering airplay. The single "Do What You Do" was stirring up some action on the charts.

Greg enjoyed the semi-notoriety for a while. It was his 'fifteen minutes' and he was not averse to making the most of it.

They would visit local records shops for the thrill of seeing the album on the shelves and to gladhand the retail guys. Surprisingly Crandall had to do little in the way of introduction, since the clerks already knew them and seemed to really like the band. The music was different from what was on the radio, these mavens proclaimed (which was high praise). It was a toast to the bluesmasters, the ones who started the rock rolling.

Then there were the perks, raining down like golden showers, tantalizing and bright as pasties on a stripper.

Outside the clubs, after the shows, women would fawn over them, clasping the CD to their breasts as proof they were the biggest, bestest fans. They wore halter tops and hopeful smiles, and on occasion Greg would take one of them back to his room. There they would get drunk, or stoned and giggle at some horrible late night movie featuring monsters or crooked cops or, on one occasion, a horde of bees.

Sometimes there was no sex. If the weed was potent enough (which it usually was these days), Greg passed out before the condom went on.

In the morning he would wake up alone, finding a crinkled accusatory note on the nightstand, calling him 'a blue-eyed faggot', 'gummy dick' or some such scandalous epithet.

It didn't matter. He wasn't in this to garner a reputation as a stud. It was ten minutes into the fifteen and, after that, he was gone, gone...goodbye.

When they reached New York, rock and roll radio poured on the royal treatment, Program directors wined and dined them under the impression that Dynamite was the next 'big thing'. Greg knew better.

Each radio guy vied for a few minutes of air time with the band. The competition began to get heated, which prompted a call to management out in Vegas. Denny was more than happy to intercede and organize a schedule that was fair to all.

The morning after next, the band was chauffered from one studio to the other and interviewed on the popular 'drive time' shows.

This was a hoot, Greg thought, luxuriating in the richness of the car's leather and chrome. Not a bad way to spend the last few fleeting minutes of his fame.

In the studio, when asked about Baggins, Crandall summoned his most stirring remembrances, coupled with a few amusing anecdotes. The accolades he had been tossing the guy posthumously over the past few weeks came spilling out for the all important New York audience to hear.

_Never gave Baggins any of those gold plated compliments when he was around, eh, Dylan? No reason for it then. Now those stories you collected in your spiral notebooks would reap the public's interest, their sympathies, make them so darn curious about this band of scruffy blues rocking guys._

Crandall was becoming an expert at shooting the shit.

But Greg's secret aced Crandall's growing conceit, Foster's swaggering overconfidence, McEvoy's excesses. Baggins's suicide note trumped all of that. Its resting place was in Greg's wallet, tucked neatly behind his Ohio driver's license. Some strange sense of power went along with the possession the troll's last thoughts. Greg liked the feel of it.

The excitement was coming to its grand finale. Fifteen minutes was fifteen minutes, after all. Dynamite played The Bottom Line club down in the Village, the audience filled with people like Lou Reed and David Johansen. It was, Greg was told, the toughest ticket in town.

Which meant a whole lot of nothing. Flavor of the week is just that, the cool kid of the moment. It got old real fast. A few more days and it was on to the new face in town.

The second hand was moving.

They gathered in Crandall's hotel suite after the final gig. McEvoy already had his hands all over some peroxide blonde he had picked up in the lobby. Greg stood on the opposite side of the room, and he could still smell her funk meshing with the stink of the geezer's cologne. How the hell could they stand each other? In the corner, Foster was splayed like a rag doll on the sofa, well out of it, having downed a few Quaaludes before leaving the club.

Waving his cigarette to illustrate his point, Crandall chatted with some fans he had deigned to allow inside the sanctum. The cigarette was some sort of brown European job Crandall never would have considered smoking back in Eldridge.

"It's been fun," Greg slapped him on the back, then headed for the door.

"Sure has."

With one hand on the knob, Greg added, "Thanks for the ride."

"Wait," Crandall hurried after him, the ashes from that stupid cigarette dotting the cream colored carpet. "Where are you going?"

Greg smiled and winked. "There's something to be said for knowing when the fruit's ripened to perfection. The trick is to catch it when its at the peak of flavor."

"What the fuck are you-"

"You gotta eat it before the maggots set in." He clapped Crandall on the shoulder again before pulling open the door. "Remember that, Dylan."

The clock struck the quarter hour as Greg left the room.


	23. Date Night

**-23-**

"Date Night"

It was to be a real date, she told him. After all this time, how ridiculous was it that they had never gone out...anywhere? Dinner from the drive-thru, rendezvous at the Rest Stop. Granted, there were extenuating circumstances, and it wasn't _terrible_ this way. They both knew what to expect and surprises were infrequent. On occasion they would conspire to throw a bit more spice into the mix (lately he had taken to playing Fats Waller tunes on his piano, while she lay naked on his bed, striking seductive poses, both of them giggling like naughty teenagers).

Sex would follow, and the sex continued to delight and amaze. For a time, prior to her west coast jaunt, she had been distracted by work, by finances, by Charlie's troublesome ways, and had not been her enthusiastic best. But upon her return, she made it her business to be more focused on Greg's needs, more giving.

How could she deny him anything after he had taken such good care of Sam? The night Charlie hightailed it off to 'work', when he really didn't need to, could have ended up a disaster. The simple re-casting job could have been handled over the phone, via the internet, or sloughed it off to an underling. Instead Charles made it a big deal, his need for drama and notoriety getting the better of him once again.

But for Sam it was a magical night. He had been over the moon, bragging to his friends about the motorcycle ride and the trip to the store to choose his own leather jacket and helmet. ("Greg's holding on to them for me," he told them. "I'm gonna get them back one day.").

What would it take for Charles to see reason and let Sam keep the gifts? Yes, guilt was a brick wall Charles couldn't find the strength or will to knock down, but he knew he had to do something to make things right. Unfortunately his attempts were met with stony, disappointed looks from his son.

"I'll get you a helmet," Charles said, taking a rare foray into Sam's room.

"You don't ride."

"I'll get you one anyway," Charles tried. "And a jacket."

"What good is having a helmet and riding jacket if _you_ don't ride."

"I'll get you an ATV."

"My friends don't have ATVs." Sam shrugged. "It wouldn't be any fun riding it alone."

What next? Would Charles offer to buy ATV's for Sam's friends? No. His guilt didn't push him quite that far.

Lisa quit eavesdropping and left it at that, never mentioning the jacket or helmet again, not even in passing. Making an issue of anything to do with Greg was to invite speculation and suspicion.

She didn't like dwelling on the future when it came to this 'back alley' romance. Until today, she focused solely on the here, the now, the heat of the moment.

Now even that was going to change.

Precognition had never been her forte, but in this case, she knew exactly what was to come. To play fair, she needed to tell Greg what was up...and soon.

They drowsed; her fingers wandering over the sparse hairs on his chest as his breathing deepened, his mouth falling open. His snores were loud enough to rattle the windows. She nudged him gently, stopping the symphony, for now.

Procrastination was getting her nowhere. The longer she let this slide, the more difficult the task would become. Now she could pretend it was something nebulous, distant, like a beacon in the fog. But her words would make it real, cause it to become a solid, tangible prospect that would change everything. Denying the facts would no longer be an option.

Sighing, she knew there would never be a right time, especially not here in his rooms, where it was too easy to sink into a comfortable lazy repose. The feel of his hands sliding over her and warmth of his body were like drugs, compelling her to let all the important stuff sit in the corner, out of reach, out of touch until next time, or the time after that.

A stress factor is what they needed. Stress and a new environment for their tryst.

This is why they needed to go on a date.

* * *

Sometimes things worked out, every perfect piece falling magically into place. Charles was on one of his four-day weekend jaunts to L.A.; Zack's parents had invited Sam to a family reunion in Brewster, New York. The family was semi-roughing it, holing up in log cabins for the weekend. If it wasn't too chilly, the kids could spend the night in sleeping bags under the stars. There would be songs and ghost stories around the campfire, touch football, softball, and lots of food.

_Call me if you need me, _Lisa told Sam, but his excitement overrode any thoughts of keeping in touch with Mom. This was going to be an adventure!

She checked her look in the full length bedroom mirror once more: the black dress was low enough to whisper a promise, stiletto heels were provocatively brash, smoke gray nylons had the requisite seams riding up the back.

_Steam heat_. She raised an eyebrow. Forty years old and still hot enough to garner a backward glance or two.

She told Greg to wear a suit, bring along the gift she had sent him special delivery, and expect the unexpected. He hated surprises but he would love this one. Smiling, she fished her car keys from her purse, hoping she didn't give him a coronary tonight.

* * *

They took separate cars, arriving at _DiSanto's _within a half hour of one another. The Soho restaurant was small but lush, discreet and private. The maitre' d asked her name in a hushed tone, like he was making secret plans for world domination.

To her surprise, Greg was already seated when she arrived, waiting at a small table in a dimly lit corner of the room. She could see the tension in his shoulders as she approached, how he tossed back his head as he downed his scotch. He was on edge. This was not a situation he enjoyed; he would much prefer being in that hovel he called home.

But he had dressed himself well. His dark blue suit jacket seemed clean, if a little creased; his shirt, tie and trousers all matched. The diamond stud glimmered in the half light.

He eyed her appreciatively, lifted his cane, his _new_ cane in greeting. "Expect the unexpected. Cool."

"Do you like it?"

"Flames on the bottom." With as much flourish as he could muster, being seated and tipsy, he raised the cane higher, setting its rubber tip shivering skyward. "Orange flames."

"Turbo charged." Laughing, she made a one handed motion like she was revving a motor. "Vroom, vroom."

"Me likee, Mistress." He set the cane gently against the wall by his chair.

"How much have you had?" she asked, taking her seat.

"Not enough to ruin my chances for later." A single rose appeared in his hand. "The florist said this is guaranteed to get me laid. It would be a shame to have to get my money back."

"I don't think...you'll need to return it, Greg." Her cheeks burned, and her grin was much too wide. She grabbed the flower, touched it to her nose, then put it by her place setting.

A waiter approached, greeting her with a genteel grin, to which she responded with a curt nod.

"Would you like a drink, madam?" He was a study in decorum, bowing slightly, his eyes dark and probing. "Perhaps a look at our wine list?"

"A nice Chablis," she said, then added, "Whatever you recommend."

"Very good." He turned on his heel and headed back to wherever waiters went when they weren't taking orders or serving food.

"You look good half-dressed," Greg said. "You should skimp on the outerwear more often."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

They were silent for the time it took them to peruse their menus.

"Sam never stops talking about that motorcycle ride." Lisa closed the menu. She leaned forward, drumming her fingers against the leather binding.

"I hope you weren't looking at prices," he said, narrowing his eyes at her over his scotch.

"Why should it matter when I'm paying?"

"Like hell you are."

The flash of anger didn't surprise her. Letting a woman pay the tab didn't sit well with him. It put a chink in his confidence, made him feel like less of a man. Macho bullshit. The restaurant was elegant, expensive, definitely not in his price range. It didn't matter. Greg's pride wouldn't allow him to listen to reason. _After all this time, you think he would just...give in. _Nothing to be ashamed of, allowing the gal to throw a little green around now and then. No. His gaze was hard and unyielding, and she had no recourse but to play the game and cheat a little.

"Oookay." Pursing her lips, she whistled a little tune as she opened the menu again.

"Don't," he snapped, causing her head to jerk up.

"What?" Her gaze returned to the list of entrees. The least expensive fare hovered just below the thirty dollar mark.

He tilted his glass at her. "Close the damn menu,"

"Why? I'm just-"

"It didn't take you three minutes to pick out what you wanted to eat. I could see that famished, anticipatory look when you were done." With a raised brow, he added, "I know that look well."

"So?" Shrugging, she let her tongue glide across her lower lip. "A girl can change her mind."

"You're full of it." He tapped a finger against the table, punctuating his words. "Don't pick something less expensive because I'm paying."

"You don't have to do this-"

His gaze traveled to her cleavage, before heading back to her eyes . "I don't have to let Nurse 'Boom Boom' Isley hunt and gather her own supplies, but I do."

"That's because she has to rub against you to get to the boxes."

"Damn right."

She slapped the menu closed "Fine. Fine. I know what this is about. Look, I'm sorry Sam couldn't keep those things you bought him. If it were up to me, he would go riding with you every weekend."

With a snort, Greg ran one finger around the rim of his glass. "I don't need visitation rights. He's not my kid. He's yours and Flo Ziegfeld's,"

"Funny. I thought you might have cared."

"Tell your old man not to have such a powerful work ethic and to quit dumping the kid on other people." Lowering his tone, he shook his fork at her. "It's doing Sam more harm than good."

"Thank you, Dr. Spock."

Without warning, the memory of rolling in the sheets with Elliot Messer assaulted her, jabbing at her like an elbow in the gut. She hadn't thought about that evening since leaving L.A. The little romp was meaningless. But she couldn't deny that it was fun.

The morning after, Lisa worried about her mental state, her psychological well being. She wasn't promiscuous, never pandered to her impulses in that way. But three thousand miles was a long haul from the familiar, the stuff that guilt was made of.

Elliot told her he wanted her...for one night. How could she fault honesty like that? Emotions were left out of the mix, which convinced her it was okay. It was all about the physical, the heat, the wonderfully explosive end to a busy day.

Lisa was surprised how much she had enjoyed it, and was pleased when Elliott Messer left her hotel room without a promise of a repeat performance. No regrets. No longing. No problem.

Her reaction got her wondering...was this how she preferred relationships? No ties, no strings...?

She never used to, but maybe now, deep down, she did.

Greg downed the rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the table, then raised one hand, his fingers snippety-snapping away. "Garçon_!"_

"What are you doing?" Lisa hissed, her cheeks burning again. "I haven't decided."

"I'm ordering for both of us."

"You have no idea what I want."

"You underestimate me all the time, Mistress," he said with a smirk. "Why is that?"

The waiter arrived with Lisa's Chablis and his order pad at the ready.

"Two rib-eyes, medium rare," Greg said before Lisa could open her mouth. "Green salad and a baked potato for the lady, sautéed mushrooms and garlic mashed for _moi._" With a flick of his wrist, Greg shooed the waiter away, while tossing Lisa a knowing look. "You would have ordered that way if you were paying. Since you were trying to play _nice_, you were going to opt for the less pricey stuffed sole, which you didn't really want."

"I-"

"Don't do this, Lisa," he said. "Don't pander to me. It doesn't suit you, and I don't like it."

Averting her eyes, she sipped her Chablis, feeling his gaze warm on her face, like a patch of sun. He was studying her, examining her, _reading _her, like he always did. There were moments in their lovemaking when she felt his eyes on her, coolly observing as pleasure drove her, making her moan and writhe and buck, before finally taking her away.

_He knows, _she thought, the taste of the wine tart and potent on the back of her tongue. _He knows what I'm going to tell him..._

...which wouldn't make the telling any easier.


	24. A Little Traveling Music, Please

**-24-**

"A Little Traveling Music, Please"

(1983-2003)

"Proud Mary" was not the sort of tune he would normally take as a request. Murphy's regulars were well aware of how Greg felt about 'certain' songs, and he had trained them well never, ever to ask for them.

Control made him happy. Veto power filled him with joy. He got away with a lot of crap here, which was why this stint as Murphy's resident warbler/piano player had lasted longer than his turn in Dynamite.

Here he was ruler, a titan. A god.

Listed on the chalkboard above the bar, were Greg's Top Ten Most Wretched Songs, which could change weekly or daily, depending on his mood. The barfly population knew that to ask for any of these winning tunes might bring certain humiliation down on their stupid, pea-brained noggins.

But tonight it was Hennessy doing the asking, raising one trembling hand as he croaked out the request from his stool at the end of the bar.

Greg heard him over the din, the clink of glasses, the drunken caterwauling.

With all the enthusiasm he could muster, he set "Proud Mary" in motion and got through it without once rolling his eyes.

He couldn't deny Hennessy, who usually never asked for anything except for Greg to _play it pretty for me, boy. _Most of the regulars he merely tolerated. Hennessy he actually liked and Greg wished he had met more guys like him along the way.

Hennessy was Greg's entertainment. After the set was done, they would sit together at a back booth and trade war stories. Back in the '50's, the old man used to strum a banjo in a bluegrass band called Alamo. Alamo played countless country fairs and once even got to perform at the Grand Old Opry. Hennessy loved to tell the story; it brought a youthful glow to his face, an exuberant shine to those weary, ancient eyes.

Greg supposed there were worse songs than "Proud Mary". Much worse. The poor soul who ignored the chalkboard and dared request a song as sugar sappy as "Just the Way You Are" or "Sometimes When We Touch" would feel the sting of Greg's wrath and really get the locals going. Fueled by the crowd's chant of "Corn, Corn, Corn!" Greg would swing his sacred beer tap handle (the one he had saved from his very first bar gig), and dub the hapless sap lover "Cornhole of the Night". The regulars toasted this clueless unfortunate, and one lucky lady (of Greg's choosing) gifted the Cornhole with a crown of corn husks (which he was forced to wear for the duration of his visit).

Creedence Clearwater Revival was not on Greg's pick to click list. He never liked them. They were nothing but rich boys dressed in faded jeans and denim shirts, singing out to Joe Average like they really understood the working class. Hell, that irritated him.

Way too many Creedence wannabe bands had stumbled across his path over the past fifteen years--years that had zipped by in a rough and tumble flash.

_The more things change, the more they stayed the same._

It was hard to believe a decade and a half had passed since he had walked out on Dynamite. Even at this stage, Greg would sometimes find himself seeking a cue from Crandall or Foster or...Baggins when he played his sets.

But it was just G-Man under the lights now, making his own rules, playing the music he considered worthy. Over the years, he had amassed an encyclopedic knowledge of song: from blues to jazz, pop to standards and classical. But he was particular about what he deigned to put forth; his audience and even the bossman tolerated his whims. "Read the board_, _people,"he would shout, shaking his cane at The List as he took the stage. And if some unsuitably trite tune was requested, the corn husks would fly.

Fifteen years. Crandall had done them all a favor, whittling those years down to their more interesting moments in his memoir, "Do What You Do--the Dynamite Saga". A decade ago, after Crandall disbanded the group for good, he sat down and wrote the stupid thing. Within a month of its release it became a _New York Times_ bestseller and enabled Crandall to make a lucrative living as a freelance music journalist.

Well, good. The success of the book meant more publicity for the G-Man. That notoriety brought Greg better gigs, more bang for the buck.

Lately he tired more easily, as if the years had conspired to slow him down. On some mornings, Greg would scrutinize himself in the mirror, as if to confirm the damage the post med school era had wrought. The evidence was all there: the travel, the smoke, the sex, the occasional snort of something stronger than snuff had obliterated the innocence in that once pretty face. His jaw was still strong, although leaner than it used to be, with a perennial coat of stubble. He was only thirty-nine, but his well-lined face and intense, deep-set eyes made him look five years older. His brown hair was threaded with silver. Which was okay...

Chicks dug the older man thing.

Chicks also dug when he talked about Dynamite. Everyone did. They all wanted to know what happened to the band that did that great song. The summer he abandoned the group everyone was singing "Do What You Do". He couldn't escape it...or them, so he let his semi-notoriety work for him. The fame was like money in the bank. Sock it away in that high yield account and the rewards would eventually double or triple.

The day after he went on his own, he rented a damp, roach infested room in a tenement near the Hudson River. He gave himself a deadline--a month to scour the five boroughs for a decent apartment, somewhere he could live and not have to worry about stray bullets flying through his window. Within a week he found a two and a half room place in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, managing to charm the landlady into giving him a year lease. Spotless, well maintained apartments were difficult to come by; snagging a lease was even more daunting, but Greg was pretty good with the smooth talk.

Luck was with him, since Madam Landlady Pamela Toth had a _thing_ for musicians. She adored "Do What You Do" and got a crazed gleam in her eyes whenever Greg chose to toss a line or two her way.

She wore rainbow colored muumuus to blanket her girth and occasionally suggested sex as credit toward the rent. Depending on what Greg was willing to do to her, the price for the month could be knocked down substantially. That September he got off scott-free, except for utilities. For what she asked of him, it was not really a bargain, and certainly not a memory worth keeping.

He bought a 1994 Nova at a dealership Pamela recommended. For what she lacked in social graces and subtlety, she more than made up for with her business savvy. Greg was not adverse to following her advice (she was smart, making a fortune collecting rents from not only the tenants of his building, but from the complex adjacent to it, as well).

The Nova had surprisingly low mileage, perfect for transporting his butt from club to club...as he put himself on the block.

It wasn't difficult finding a steady gig; it only took him a week. Once he flashed the CD and told the clubs' booking agents who he was they clamored for his services. This was excitement, _this_ was charisma. A recording artist with a bonafide hit on the Billboard charts applying for the job of house pianist didn't come along every day.

This crumb of fame gave him the home field advantage, the ability to pick and choose where he wanted to work. The offers turned into a bidding war. In the end, he opted for Murphy's Pub, located on the upper west side. The pub let him name his own price and, after a couple of beers, Greg came up with what he considered an outrageous figure. To his surprise, they didn't haggle or balk. They said yes.

For the first time in his 'career', Greg was financially in the black.

It was cool being the big fish for a change. After five years at Murphy's he was considerably content, dividing his time between his five night a week gig and a woman named Lyla. Lyla enjoyed using him as a guinea pig for new recipes, and sleeping with him three nights a week. She asked nothing more than reimbursement for the food she bought, and Greg was genuinely sad when she one day picked up and left.

Life went on...

He arrived back at his apartment early one morning to find a phone message from Denny Stockholm.

..._heard about your success at Murphy's. How about a road trip of your own? Call me..._

The money would be good, the accommodations first class all the way, Murphy's would hold his job for him. And Denny expected nothing but hard work in return. Greg assumed that a gaggle of newer, prettier faces were in the Stockholm stable now.

How could he refuse?

With the money he had saved, he bought a van, customized it with plush blue carpet and a stereo setup that would rival any home system.

One month prior to setting out, he did something that had been on his mind for some time.

He got an AIDS test.

An abundance of horror stories had come his way and a strange unease had begun to settle in. His current opportunities were too good to let procrastination and apathy wend their way into the mix. Ending up roadkill like his old pal Baggins was just not an option.

To his surprise, all tests were negative. It seemed that now, for the first time in his life, the world was his.

* * *

Carting his own ass around was better than being beholden to Crandall for his livelihood and transport. He learned about backroads, shortcuts, and where some of the best diners in America were tucked away.

If he grew bored of the highway or sick of his own thoughts, he would pick up a hitchhiker, just for entertainment. Usually they needed a ride to the next town, which wasn't a problem. It was when they wanted to stay on the road with him, play the buddy game, that he tossed them out at the next exit. More so-called pals he did not need.

He was well aware that the practice was not to his benefit. For one thing, it was illegal, and you never knew who lurked behind that friendly face. So far he had survived. Life was golden. He had racked up some years. Luck had turned out to be his partner in crime. No way he could have predicted it.

Some moments stuck with him, burning themselves into his memory like a brand. During a gig at The Red Cap Pub in Toledo, he noticed an older woman standing in the back of the room, clutching her handbag like it might shield her from whatever demons lurked in the cherry wood walls.. The room was stuffy and smoke-filled but her coat remained buttoned up to her neck. Greg recognized the coat, the same time he realized the woman was his mother.

He embraced her after his set, offered her a drink, which she declined. She couldn't stay long. John thought she was at her book club meeting, and it would take her an hour to get home. She just wanted to see her son, she said, touching his face. Tears filled her eyes. Something he didn't want to deal with. After asking if he was okay (yes...), if he needed anything (no...), she hugged him again, tighter this time and for longer than she had initially. Then she was gone...

The thought of following her home, sitting across from her at the kitchen table over coffee, and gabbing 'til the wee hours was nearly irresistible. But Greg knew the colonel would veto that idea and the colonel's word was law. That much hadn't changed.

Life went on...and on...

In Lincoln, Nebraska, boredom set in. There was nothing to do but scour the town for record shops (of which he found one), or drink (which wasn't an option. Drinking before a gig put him off his game, caused him to turn in a sloppy performance. Couldn't have that). He hadn't met a woman to help pass the time, so he wandered into a jewelry store, got his right earlobe pierced and bought a diamond stud.

He was happy with his decision. The woman who did the piercing smelled fruity sweet, like a Creamsicle; her breasts brushing the nape of his neck as she worked.

_That_ was a grand way of beating back the boredom. Even better than booze.

* * *

He spent a year on the road, returning to New York in early summer. Fully prepared to go back to Murphy's, he aired out his apartment, stocked his fridge with food and beer, which is when he got the call from Crandall.

Crandall had been on a tour hawking his second book, "Staying Sane In the Music Business", a how-to guide for young musicians just setting out on the road. It was another successful venture and one he hoped would offer bands a heads up on what traps not to fall into while traveling the circuit.

Impatient with his chatter, which Greg assumed was self-serving one-upmanship, he considered hanging up, until Crandall hit him with the zinger.

_Let's tour._

"No fuckin' way," Greg said. "I just got back from a tour."

_So what? This is different. An acoustic tour, just you and me. Guitar and piano. We can travel on motorcycles up the east coast. Three, four weeks tops. We'll end up in Maine. It'll be fun. The clubs will let us sell the CD and the book, and we can split the profits on both. Whaddya say?_

The macho road warrior thing appealed to Greg. So did the money. Roaring headlong into this buddy-buddy testosterone fueled endeavor seemed a bit impulsive but, he figured, what the hell? A chance like this came along maybe once in a lifetime.

He asked Crandall to give him a week to turn over the offer in his head. When he could think of no logical reason not to proceed, he gave Crandall the nod to set up the tour.

Months later, after he'd had too much time to think, he realized this was the moment he stepped willingly into the gold-lined sarcophagus, its lid swinging shut with a cold, frightening finality.

* * *

Crandall's girlfriend, Amy, was seven months pregnant when he and Greg left on their tour. Otherwise she would have come with them, riding on the back of Dylan's Honda, chattering away about the places all the places they would go.

Greg was overjoyed that she was knocked up. One thing he would hate would be Crandall's giddy other half recalling the day's events in a breathy voice filled with hick town wonder.

She born and bred in Kentucky, which explained it all.

The tour would be a short one, spanning only three weeks. In that time they would play ten dates, hitting New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and ending up in Bangor, Maine.

Riding that Honda was a real kick; so much more fun than being stuck behind the wheel of the van. It was like pitting Then Came Bronson against Joe Normal, with Bronson coming out the victor.

On the bike, the road looked different: dark and smooth like rough-hewn glass. It was an alien planet, scented with diesel fuel, pine trees and burnt rubber. Visors down, they roared along, cut their speed as they drove through the smaller towns, stopping to check out the local bars, enjoying the sights before work beckoned.

Gabby's Place in Bangor, Maine was the last stop on the tour. It was also the definition of the word 'dive'. The tables were from another era, the wood peeling and stained, like they were about ready to be junked. The chairs were rock hard and rickety. In the window, the neon _Bud_ sign flickered, dying. The less said about the mens room, the better.

Amazingly, none of this mattered, seeing as how the place was packed to the rafters. The mixed drinks were potent; the beer flowed foamy and cold. And here they were, two bonafide recording artists ready to take the stage.

It was a great gig, one of their best, and the most fun Greg ever had playing music for money. The set consisted of deep cuts from the album mixed with covers of their favorite blues songs. They ended it in grand style by leading the crowd in an extended drunken sing-a-long of "Do What You Do".

The cheering, ecstatic crowd refused to let them off the stage, which riled Silver Cup, the house band, who were set to play until 2 A.M.-- closing time. When Crandall suggested that he and Greg sit in with them, the band took a quick vote, then reluctantly agreed.

The music went on until way past 2 A.M. The more freely the beers flowed, the more Greg's fingers seemed to stumble and stagger over the piano keys of their own volition. He nearly passed out twice, but the music lifted him up, spurred him on.

When the last pie-eyed soul left the place, Gabby, the ever kindly businessman hippie insist that Greg and Crandall spend the night in the back room of the club. It wasn't fancy. There were two cots and a marginally clean bathroom at their disposal.

Too bleary eyed and thick headed to think straight, Greg let himself be led to the bed, and collapsed into it without removing his sneakers.

* * *

From another time, another place, another galaxy, a hand came down to push and prod his shoulder. A hushed, frantic voice urged him to wake. Quickly. _Now!_

Crandall, stood over him, bug-eyed, sweating, flecks of...something on his chin and lips. He stunk like sweat and booze and fear.

Greg rolled away from him. Whatever the problem was, he didn't care.

"Amy's having the baby. We gotta go. Now."

Insisting that Amy didn't need his help pushing out a kid, Greg rolled over again, pleased to find a dry spot on his drool drenched pillow.

"It's premature, Greg. Come on!"

His head hurt, temples booming like timpanis. "Go 'way."

"Come _on!" _Crandall shook him, harder this time.

"I'll count to three and then your ass better be gone," Greg half mumbled into his pillow. It hurt to talk; it hurt to breathe.

"I don't have time for this, Greg."

With some effort, Greg turned his head to get a better look at this nuisance. The room tilted one way, then the other before Crandall swam into view. "Go yourself. I'm a big boy. I can get home without you."

"No." Crandall shook his head violently. "No. You gotta help me through this. I'm afraid."

"You fucking wimp. You gutless wonder." Greg squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. Four A. M. He had slept for an hour. Maybe.

"Call me whatever you want, Greg." Crandall's voice cracked. Any minute the waterworks were going to start. "Just help me get through this."

"It's not even light out. Wait until-"

"No! There's no time. She just called. She's in the hospital." This time he grabbed the blanket, tossed it to the floor and threw a shirt on top of Greg's still prone form. "We need to leave now."

"You're talking about traveling almost four hundred miles," Greg said. "We're better off taking the train."

"I'm not leaving my bike here." Crandall was incredulous.

"What?"

"I can't leave it here."

"You're so worried about your girlfriend that you won't leave your precious bike for a couple of days?" Pinching the bridge of nose, Greg shuddered out a long breath, then grabbed the shirt Crandall had tossed at him. "Get me a fucking thermos of black coffee for the ride."

"Where am I supposed to get that at this hour?"

Greg hung his head, breathing slow and easy against the burgeoning nausea, promising himself never to get involved with Crandall again.

"That's your problem, isn't it?"

* * *

As thermoses went it, Crandall told him, it was a good one. Twenty dollars bought a cylinder of shiny, sturdy aluminum, the only one left at the convenience store two blocks from Gabby's. Crandall filled it with two cups of black coffee and presented it to Greg like an offering to a deity.

He was damn lucky Greg didn't puke all over him.

Greg's headache had worsened since Crandall went on his mission. Now, sitting on his bike, taking one last swig of the hot, black pick-me-up, he didn't know if he was going to make it to the corner, much less New York City.

There was something to be said for the power of will, the fortitude of friendship. He had never felt a true kinship with Crandall, but they had known each other so long, been through so much insanity together, Greg didn't know what else to call it.

They roared down the quiet streets toward the interstate. Usually he enjoyed the sound of the motor's snarl, how the bike rumbled beneath him, like a goddess purring at his touch. This morning it made him feel sick.

* * *

A flash of light is what he recalled, a flash of light and pancakes the way his mother made them. Watching...waiting for the spatula to send them flying up, up toward the kitchen ceiling, then flipping over. Such finesse, such lightness.

In a way, that's how it was when he lost control, spinning crazily, careening into the Jersey barrier, then

_upsy daisy...up and over..._

It was only when he landed, bruised, battered, his right leg trapped beneath his former road worthy vehicle, that he realized this was serious,

_this was no foolin' around..._

The darkness was his friend, and he commiserated with his friend for the better part of two days. At least that's what they told him in the hospital. He cracked three ribs, broke his left wrist, suffered lacerations on his arms and neck, broke his jaw. They also told him about the complications from the injuries to his right leg. There had been blockage of blood flow through the artery that led to the thigh, and part of that thigh muscle needed to be removed. Otherwise it would necrotize and poison the rest of his body.

He signed the consent forms. What the hell did he know? He was no doctor.

Crandall was like a spirit, pallid, drifting through his room at what seemed like odd hours of the day and night. But time was slippery; Greg soon lost sense of it. Every time he woke from his medicated doze the news was on the TV above the bed. Morning? Noon? Early evening? Late night? The news was always there for him, his one true pal...

The surgery came and went, after which, as a special treat, he was transferred to Henning's Health Care Facility in upstate New York.

_Don't worry about it, man. Denny paid for everything. Private room, the works. He's taking care of things. Don't worry._

Six months passed, wrapped up in pain and walkers and canes, more pain, pain meds, and nurses who tried to break through Greg's silence with their smiles.

He had no use for them, for anyone or anything except the pills to dull the pain. It was cool how they doled them out like candy. Those he liked, and looked forward to his daily dose.

Crandall, the proud papa, brought him baby pictures to look at, which Greg flung back at him. It was the kid's fault he was in here, wasn't it? An accident of birth. After that little outburst, Crandall stayed away for awhile. Greg didn't care. He had no use for niceties or subtleties or being civil.

The next time Crandall showed up it was with a notary public and a manila folder containing pages of legal documents. His voice shook as he explained about the convenience store on the outskirts of Princeton, New Jersey.

_Here you go, Greg. Man, I'm sorry. I owe you. I'm sorry, I'm so... _

Crandall signed the papers with a trembling hand, his tears smudging the signature on those Transference of Ownership papers.

The place was Greg's, free and clear, if he wanted it. He could live there, as well as be his own boss. Crandall would stock it, put gas in the pumps to get him started. The apartment was up the stairs, though. That might be a problem. Renovations could be looked into.

"It's not a problem", Greg said, signing his name under Crandall's, magically, mystically taking ownership of a place he had never seen. "Don't fuck with what's mine_."_

Greg's hair grew long and wild, but he wouldn't let them cut it. Instead he pulled it back into a scraggly ponytail, and kept it that way as a reminder that nothing is ever for certain, and that life would never be the same.


	25. The Edge of the Universe

**-25-**

"The Edge of the Universe"

The new year came and went, whisking Lisa away with it.

During the three months of preparation for her move west, she informed Greg that the Book Club meetings would have to come to a close. There were holidays to deal with, final farewells, packing, tying up loose ends, preparing Sam for this major change.

As Greg expected, she quickly went back on her word, some nights showing up at eleven or midnight, just as he was drifting off. They would sleep huddled close and warm, lazing in bed until the alarm broke the mood and shoved them out into the day.

What excuse must she have concocted to enable them to savor these final clandestine hours? He never asked. Didn't want to know.

Time zipped by like a stealth jet fighter. Now you see it, now you...

Thomas Hague was named the new Dean of Medicine. He wore gray suits, which perfectly complemented his salt and pepper hair and gray and black argyle socks.

On one of her last days at Princeton Plainsboro, Lisa introduced Hague to Greg out of a sense of obligation. It was far from the beginning of a beautiful friendship. From the start they were like boxers facing off on either side of the ring; the animosity between them was palpable, like a thick roux gone bad.

Greg proclaimed that Hague was just no fun, _Mommy_, blessed with a personality as dull as his fashion sense.

Lisa was well aware of her traitorous act, convincing Dr. Hague she was all for 'going by the book', while encouraging him to do the same. What else could she do? Standing by the door of the supply room as Hague scrutinized the inventory, she smoothed her palms down the sides of her skirt, and shifted restlessly on those stiletto heels. She refused to meet Greg's eyes, making it clear to His Highness she was steeling herself for the worst. At any moment, politically incorrect barbs could come flying from his mouth, shake up the fragile foundation and cause the walls to come tumblin' down.

But with a smirk and a mischievous lift of his brow, Greg pursed his lips and gave a slow shake of his head, a silent sign he would be a good boy...

Her shoulders slumped with relief.

* * *

Now she was gone...for good. Okay...so who was left to field his sarcasm, let him steal their food, or give a damn about him...at all?

No one.

_Aw...poor you..._

It seemed Hateful Hague had a true plan, a wondrous purpose: to cause Greg's little kingdom fall. The plans Greg had implemented to save the hospital money and make his higher ups look like fucking geniuses were shot down without discussion. He was told his methods were 'unorthodox', 'juvenile', and 'not the way a department in a prestigious teaching hospital should be run'.

Hague took it upon himself to prohibit any further distribution of Greg's masterfully rendered requisition form. Instead, Greg was ordered to compose a more 'suitable' one. If this was not possible, Thomas Hague would find someone who was more able to follow this simple directive.

Music, at least the sort Greg found pleasing, was also taken off the table. Greg was told to leave his boombox home. Sounds of a different sort were implemented in the hospital. Muzak, sappy and vile, wended its evil way down corridors, into dayrooms and elevators was like poison gas bleeding through vents. Internet access was also denied. No more Miss Sally Olma or News Of the Weird.

Greg's flagging morale plummeted to new, uncharted depths. He was lonesome, and more morose than he had ever been--even those dark days of Dynamite couldn't compare to this emptiness he felt.

The truth of his total _aloneness_ hit him hard. During the worst of times, there had been someone in close proximity to annoy or share a beer with. But now, it was just he, himself and him--24/7, around the clock.

For Greg, there was nothing worse than that.

* * *

It was the coldest February on record, a fact the television meteorologists gleefully chucked at him nightly. But this was not news to him.

The thermostat had somehow set itself to seventy-five degrees. Last year he kept it at sixty-eight but this winter it seemed to have gotten the notion to take a chance, push itself that much closer to tropical nirvana. Interesting. He sure didn't remember doing it...

_You're cracking at the seams, old man..._

His hovel did not hold the heat well; he could never seem to warm up.

The single digit temperatures and the threat of black ice forced him to drive his van to work instead of his bike. The air had never been more raw. It ravaged his hands, causing the skin to crack and bleed.

Alone in bed, he piled on the blankets, but the cold found him anyway, digging deep into the core of him, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut against it. He shivered, refusing to seek solace in his own hands or the memory of her.

But he couldn't avoid the dreams where the California sun shone warm on his face, while Lisa rode him like Annie Oakley at the ro-day-o...

Miller's Bar was a shitty little oasis three miles down the road from the Rest Stop. It was warm there, the beer was good. It felt...comfortable. He hadn't meant to talk to anyone, but Sandy settled in next to him every time he showed up. After awhile he knew she was waiting for him. One time he caught her sitting by the window beneath the flickering Budweiser neon, watching the parking lot, smiling when he pulled up.

She was divorced, wore hot pink spandex pants, dyed her hair platinum blonde and was captain of her bowling team. Her garish homeliness held a strange sway over Greg, which led him to take her up on the offer for a bi-weekly roll in the hay. They would check into a motel, grapple and screw for an hour or so, then go their separate ways. She never asked about his leg or his earring or why he continued to live on top of that dilapidated old store.

He should have been happy at how little she cared. Their rendezvous should have soothed him, but there was no spontaneity there, only arousal and release. The sex left him in a black mood, and colder than winter's chill.

Which only served to fuel his conviction that there was nothing left for him here.

#

"He's coming."

James's attempt at keeping the excitement from his tone only made him sound manic. His voice rose up half an octave as he pressed his palms together, as he met his wife's glare.

"So?"

"I was hoping he could stay here a night or two." Rolling his shoulders uneasily, he added, "just until he finds a place. And, hey, you could help him with that-"

Her eyes flashed something: a warning, displeasure, a volatile mix of both. "When?"

"I talked to him this morning. He's driving, and might go the scenic route. He thinks the trip will take about four or five days," James sat next to her on the sofa. She had just taken up counted cross-stitching; the pattern and conglomeration of threads were spread across the coffee table. In her hands was her project: an idyllic country scene: houses, horses, trees, the green, green grass of home. The fabric was spread tight and firm in its hoop. She pulled the needle and thread through the cloth as her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a bloodless line.

"So is it okay?"

"You already told him yes, didn't you?"

James sighed, brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. He needed a haircut; he just hadn't had the time. Schoolwork had tied him up in forty different kinds of knots, and now Greg's imminent arrival was beginning to monopolize his thoughts, his plans. Their conversations had been so animated lately. It was good to hear him in such positive spirits. The corners of James's lips twitched. He would take Greg on a tour of the medical school, introduce him to the Dean of Admissions. It was all going to work out.

_But what about Bonnie?_

Yeah, Bonnie was going to be a hard sell.

"Well...yeah, I did. But he would understand if I-"

"If you what?" she snapped.

"If I told him you had a change of heart."

"Sure make me the heavy-_shit!" _The needlework fell from her hand onto the carpet, as she pressed the tip of her forefinger to her lips.

"Let me see."

"Shit," she moaned and allowed James to press the injured finger to his lips. He placed the tip of his tongue against the dot of blood, against the salty sweetness of her skin. Her look softened.

"I'm sorry, James," she whispered, watching as he scrutinized the slight wound. "I am. It's just everything at once. But he's your friend. Of course it's okay. Of course."

It was a mantra, he knew. She was trying to convince herself it was alright. Whatever worked was okay with him. He would have his friend, his wife, his classes, a career. Was he being selfish for wanting...everything? Maybe. But if he was happy, Bonnie would be too. That's how it worked, right? Happiness begets happiness.

He pressed her finger to lips again, as his gaze held hers, like a caress, silently reassuring her, wanting her to feel his anticipation, his burgeoning excitement.

_Greg is coming. _He pushed the thought at her.

_And life is good._

* * *

_He's coming. _

Lisa's thoughts flailed and fluttered, like a flock of wild geese startled by a gun blast. She thought she had moved on, that life had taken her in a different direction. Not really. She hadn't changed; L.A. Lisa was the same as New Jersey Lisa. Different coast, palm trees instead of pine. But she had the same desires, the same guilt.

Daytime was her friend. During the day she was able to repress things, make herself almost believe that everything she needed was right here in LaLa Land. Acclimating herself to a new regimen, new people, a new house, new job, took her mind off of what she had left behind.

But sometimes, at night, laying in bed, while Charlie was out at a late meeting, thoughts of Greg came out to play. When she touched herself and softly moaned, she could almost believe he was hovering above her like an astral traveler, urging her on, savoring her release.

_Five days._

Sam wasn't having the easiest time making friends at school. He was bright, and somehow still so innocent, a fact that hadn't been this glaringly obvious back east.

_It's your fault. You baby him._

He wasn't aware of how all that intelligence and talent might work against him. Kids could be jealous, cruel.

Perhaps, like she surmised weeks before, Sam would fare better in a private school. Tomorrow she would talk about it with Charles.

_Tomorrow. Four days from tomorrow..._

She hadn't actually spoken with Greg. He left her a voicemail, telling her the basic plan, that he would take his time, maybe travel the scenic route.

_Get my kicks down Route 66 _

He half drawled, half sang the line, which made her heart beat a little faster. She placed one hand on her chest, her cheeks grew warm, tears welled in her eyes. She was glad she was alone in her new office that smelled like fresh paint and congratulatory bouquets. She was glad to be in charge so she could lock the door. That particular privilege might prove to be even more beneficial in the weeks to come.

James Wilson was going to let Greg stay at his place for a while. This was good. It would give Greg time to get settled, see about med school and look for a job. She couldn't imagine he would have trouble finding work; there might even be a position open at the hospital. She could check into it this afternoon.

So much to think about. It was all happening so fast.

She picked at her salad, let her eyes wander over her new paperwork that looked a lot like the old paperwork back in Jersey...

_The more things change..._

_..._pressed his number on her speed dial. _He's_ _busy_, she surmised when Greg's voicemail picked up. She left a quick, cheery message, crooning a somewhat sensual 'see you soon'._ So much to do. _He was probably just as anxious to start out as she was to have him hurry up and get here.

With two quick motions, she slapped her cell shut and dropped it into her purse. The sound was loud in the silence. A sound of finality, A chill scurried down her back. It was cold in here. Goose pimples dotted her upper arms and the backs of her legs. She thought about turning the thermostat up to seventy. A fund raising meeting was on the agenda for later in the afternoon. So much to think about...

She checked her watch, then gazed out the window at the palm trees waving in west coast breeze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

_Four days from tomorrow...life will be as it should_.

* * *

As he neared Arizona-California border, Greg decided to make good on his plans to take the scenic route. During his time with Dynamite, he rarely took note of the roads and byways they traveled. Generally Crandall stuck to straight and sure interstate travel, while Greg either dozed or read or let his thoughts cart him off to other places.

So he was pleased with his decision to go out of his way and travel down Route 66. The trip was interesting, more varied than straight highway driving. The route chased the desert and curved through mountains. Ghostly hulks of long abandoned diners and ancient, dried up gas stations lined some of the more desolate stretches of road.

He had cut the cord. Socked his books and CD's away in a self storage facility. Whatever else had bound him to the east was now in the hands of his lawyer. He had paid Carl Stolls a visit before taking flight, leaving him with a few implicit instructions regarding the Rest Stop.

Now he was free.

At the last service station before entering the Mojave, an old guy in the John Deere cap warned Greg about hitchhikers.

_They're out there, like monsters lurking about. They'll take you for everything you have, leave you dry as the dirt. Whatever you do, don't stop._

He wondered if the warning was obligatory. Did the codger dredge it up for everyone heading west, like a ladle filled with rancid mash?

Shaking his head, he tucked the warning away. He was driving through Siberia now, a strange name for a place surrounded by nothing but ghostly ruins and miles and miles of Mojave sand.

The woman flagging him down didn't look monstrous at all. She was raven haired, a sophisticated looking beauty, who would seem perfectly at home seated at the head of a conference table leading a business meeting. She wore form fitting jeans and a pink t-shirt that hugged her curves nicely.

Greg was...interested.

Behind her was the traitorous mode of transport: a white Lincoln with its hood up, smoke drifting from its innards. The guy poking his head into problem area probably didn't know a carburetor from a crank shaft. He was a fortysomething nebbish, the epitome of yuppie-dome. He most likely played golf on the weekends, wore Polo cologne and had season tickets to some sport he cared nothing about. How he got with his beautiful companion most likely had more to do with a hefty amount of greenbacks than a scintillating personality.

Greg slowed the van and pulled over to the shoulder, about ten feet in front of the Lincoln. He gazed out at the scrub, at the shell of a convenience store, its gas pumps mottled with rust and coated with dark streaks of grime. Another abandoned rest stop.

_How 'bout that?_

In his rearview he saw the woman hurrying toward the van, breasts bobbing slightly with the rhythm. A lovely sight. Greg smiled, unbuckled his seatbelt, then rolled down his window. The motor hummed, idling. Waiting. Behind her strolled the nebbish, most likely intent on guarding his pretty piece of property.

"Hey." She was out of breath. A sheen of perspiration shone on her upper lip. More than beautiful, she was, with those high cheekbones and full lips. Regal was a much more apt description. "We could use a ride. If you're going past Bakersfield, that would be great, but anywhere close to civilization would be fine."

Greg took it all in, enjoying the sound of her throaty laugh.

"Can you believe we overheated?" she said. "Should have checked our water at the last service station."

Nebbish appeared behind her. He wore a sunny smile, which lit up those boyish features. "We really would appreciate it."

"Get in." Greg indicated the back seat with a tilt of his chin.

Nebbish opened the passenger door, while the beauty queen took the rear seat for herself and her purse.

"I'm Mark," The nebbish had a name. He pulled the door shut and locked it. "This is my wife, Stacy." Stacy met Greg's eyes in the rearview and offered him a sultry smile.

"I'm Greg."

Mark extended his hand and Greg shook it, noticing how the guy smelled like heat and sour sweat, the scent of someone who hadn't bathed for a while.

"I like your van," Mark said.

"Thanks." Tapping the gas, Greg set the vehicle in motion.

"Not yet," Mark said. That way too cheerful smile was getting old. "Let's sit a minute."

"Why?" Greg slowed the van to a stop.

_They're out there...monsters lurking..._

Ducking his head, Mark folded his hands in his lap, then dipped one hand into the pocket of his windbreaker.

_Bit warm for a windbreaker, guy..._

"There's no need to hurry. People are always rushing everywhere in this life. Isn't that right, babe?" His eyes flickered toward his other half before settling on Greg again.

They were both staring at him now. He thought of Bonnie and Clyde in that bullet riddled Ford Forder Sedan, his gaze drifting out the window to find the ruined convenience store, its gas pump like sentries standing guard.

"What do you want?" Greg asked, his words slow and steady.

"I want your van, Greg."

Stacy was playing with Greg's ponytail. He twitched, hoping she would get the message to stop but she just kept on...

"Can't you call Triple A?"

"You know, that's a hell of a good idea," Mark's hand shifted inside his pocket as he seemed to consider this. "Problem is...the Lincoln wasn't my car and the guy we got it from, well, he wasn't too happy about giving it up either." Sighing, Mark continued, "Anyhow, those Triple A guys have computers, they'd look up all the pertinent numbers and would find out that we've done a bad thing." He narrowed his eyes and nodded. "We need another vehicle."

"So I'm it."

"Yep." Mark pulled a pistol from his pocket.

"Cigarette lighter?" Greg lifted a brow. He pressed his hands together in an attempt to squelch the trembling.

"Smart boys find these things out the hard way."

Stacy let out another burst of throaty laughter, which intrigued Greg in spite of the gun pointed at his head.

"Fine." Greg lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Can I get my pills?"

"Where are they?"

"Glove compartment."

"I'll get them."

Lifting his eyes toward the rearview, Greg sent a silent plea to Stacy. She met his gaze with amusement, which melted quickly into... confusion, then a warning.

"Vicodin, eh?" Mark shook the vial before placing it into Greg's waiting palm. "Good for what ails you?"

"Bum leg. Chronic pain. The usual."

"Sorry," Mark said with a wave of the pistol, obviously not sorry at all.

"You're stranding a cripple in the desert, Stacy," Greg found her in the rearview again, where she had paled slightly, looking less confident than before. "Can you live with that...Stacy?"

"Get out," Tapping the nozzle of the gun against Greg's temple, Mark added. "Now, please."

"You rob a bank? Kill your husband? Set a church on fire?" Greg pushed open the driver side door. "Whatever it was, Stacy, you and loverboy will eventually get put away for it. Then you'll have lots of time to think about the cripple you left to die under the cruel desert sun..."

The shove was sudden but not totally unexpected. Mark was a pretty strong guy, the force of his push sending Greg careening out the door onto the sunbaked asphalt. Greg's right hip screamed its lament, joining his leg in that sad, sad song.

Closing his eyes, he heard the _whump_ of the driver's side door as Mark pulled it shut. There was a whole bunch of shouting after that. He said, she said. Good cop, bad. Greg smiled, hoping his seemingly random (yet carefully thought out) sentiments had been the impetus for the argument.

Mark must have shifted seats. The van's motor revved as its new inhabitants continued their 'discussion'.

Already Greg was starting to bake. The top of his head burned like the bottom of a skillet.

From his hip pocket, Greg eased out the Rohrbaugh R9. He had taken an hour to clean it before the trip, shining it up good as an "L Word" marathon provided some aural and visual stimulation. The sunlight kissed the gun's nozzle, the brilliance flashing off its tip. He squinted and blinked before steadying himself on his right elbow and squeezing the trigger...

...sending the first round into the right front tire, the second into the right rear one. Each blast brought a twinge of regret. Those tires were new. _Oh, well. _There was a satisfying hiss as both tires began to deflate. It sounded like a choir of snakes.

Sweat dotted his brow as he managed to push himself to his feet, as a sense of doom settled over him, softly, gently, like parachute drifting slowly to earth. The realization that his cane was still in the van, next to Her Majesty, did nothing to toss him a bone of optimism.

_Oh...fucking...well._

Staggering toward the ruination of what once was an oasis in this desert, he noticed the shouting had ceased.

The ancient gas pump was his friend. He brushed one hand along its heat ravaged metal as he headed toward what used to be a storefront. Above the door was a faded L-O. _Louis? Louis?, Lovemonkey? _One step remained. He had big plans of turning around, parking his ass on that single, crumbling step, waiting for the inevitable showdown.

The silence was as oppressive as the heat. His neck, his underarms, back, hell, his _balls _were saturated with perspiration.

What were they doing? Watching him? Waiting for him to toss out a smartass comment or two?

The single step was covered in grit and sand. He gripped the gun a little tighter...

Which is when he heard one soft _pop! _followed by another. Then another.

He wondered about the sound as his knees shivered, turning to jelly,

_strawberry...raspberry...cherry..._

abruptly giving way. He wobbled on all fours, the Rohrbaugh now a shimmering apparition a few feet away. The sand was rough, pebbles digging into palms as his fingers scrabbled, searched...for something. Breaths slow, hitching...leaving him...

...he blinked against the hard, relentless brightness, sun against sand, yellow against yellow...

_cane is...cane is...gone..._

...wondering, thirsty... even more saturated now. Soaked. Something sticky...hot, joining the sweat to roll down his spine. Wondering...thirsty...

...breaths...going once...going twice...

_(hurts)_

...his cheek hitting the step...the world turning, turning... red, to gray...

...to black.


	26. Behind the Eyes

**-26-**

"Behind the Eyes"

_Ding!_

The dead man's stubble was caked with sand, giving him the look of an ancient, grizzled hillbilly. With a tilt of his head, Greg leaned in for a better view. Not a pretty sight but interesting. Interesting...and kind of cool.

Those lips were bloodied, as bright as cherry candy, with sparkling patches of grit mixed in for a decorative flair. Flies were beginning to gather around the face, touching on the cheeks, the hair, as if they were curious too. The shiny crimson tongue lolled from the mouth like a fat crustacean peeking from its shell. Tiny bits of scrub stuck to the the dead man's chin, his brow, his wide, staring eyes: vegetation taking root, already starting to grow. Through it all, like a reminder, the diamond stud glimmered from his earlobe--like a star, brighter than the relentless glare of that fireball in the sky.

The back of the dead man's shirt was saturated: deep crimson, almost purple...

None of this bothered Greg, because it didn't matter.

_It should bother you._

"Don't care," he said aloud, his voice carrying no further than a fleeting thought.

Over there...that guy.. whassizname?...his _name..._

_already forgetting names...things...because only one thing matters...you know what it is..._

Mark!

He would have been proud of himself, had pride been an option. But a trio of bullets wrenched that option away. There could be no more pride or vanity or

_ego..._

_Surprise! They were as dead as-_

_Ding!_

_Only one thing...matters._

Mark leaned against the van, not daring to step onto the field of slaughter, where all that adrenaline pumped Spike TV action had taken place. To do so would be inviting the sharks to gather, to surround him, turn him into roadkill just like...

_Just like...the man you used to be._

_You know, you really should care._

"Why?"

The silence was as thick as the blood pooling, scarlet fingers reaching for him from beneath the body.

_...my body has been a good friend, but I won't need it when I reach the end..._

In the end a body was just a heap o' spare parts: cooling limbs, dead tissue and a heart that didn't wanna diddy-bop no more.

From the nozzle of Mark's pistol, tendrils of smoke drifted, a sure sign that whatever took place here happened only moments ago.

But time had no bearing. Not anymore. It would again, once he reached his destination--and got on with what mattered.

And what mattered was...?

_Ding!_

From somewhere...that regal woman of the desert appeared.

_her name...was..._

Stacy.

The brave queen took the initiative, taking the walk, approaching the decomposing form that wasn't goin' nowhere. She sat on the step and folded and unfolded her hands, peering into those eyes. Finally she touched his face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.

"Dammit," the man growled from his safe haven, "get away from him."

_His name...again...whazzit?._

The lovebirds plummeted into argument mode, the squabbling was practiced, an easy yet biting round of the old back and forth. Their caustic banter was most likely the usual precursor to more passionate endeavors like sex and eating and

_killing?_

_Oh, wow. Here come the perks._ Suddenly Greg saw things, knew things. Cool things...like six days from now, Bonnie and Clyde would be found in a hotel in Reno. Cops would bust the door down a little after midnight, arrest the two of them for carjacking, kidnapping, murder...

_It didn't matter. Only one thing did..._

_Ding!_

Rising from the step, Greg turned and looked past the body, the abandoned rest stop, the scrub and the mess and the blood, out toward the horizon. The air shimmered golden. Between the blue of the sky and the arid, dead earth was a marker, a tear, and the sound

_Ding!_

compelling him to make tracks toward where he needed to go.

Allowing himself one final look back, he watched the man and the woman begin their slow trek down the highway. They would hitchhike their way to Bakersfield, keep on the straight and narrow for the rest of their journey until the law caught up with them.

That body on the ground, the one that used to fit him so well, play music, make love, wear itself out, was a husk now, a non-entity. It no longer _was. _ Was that good or bad? It didn't matter; these facts had no bearing on anything.

Now...only one thing did.

* * *

_Ding!_

The elevator doors opened. The car was packed with nurses, doctors, patients, and relatives of the infirm who, he knew, would rather be anywhere but here. The throng flanked a trembling, liver spotted man in a wheelchair, who was taking up an inordinate amount of space. Some less ambitious souls opted to wait for the next car, but waiting was for wimps, gimps and sissies. Easing his way inside, Greg slipped _through _a space the width of a pencil, brushing lightly against a few fellow passengers in the process. Those in the know might have experienced an inexplicable shiver, an uncomfortable cough they would attribute to a case of flu or an unchecked fever.

_Booga, booga, booga! _he shouted. An round-eyed orderly with a pencil thin moustache flinched and pressed his palm to his cheeks, his forehead.

_No telling what you might have picked up in the ICU (heh, heh...)_

This was kind of fun. The memory of the desert was fading quickly. It would soon be a distant half remembered dream, as would everything about the 'other' place. This was the new real and true: this was Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, and that was the real James Wilson standing over in the corner of the elevator car. Wilson folded his arms across his chest, head tilted slightly back, his eyes steady on the lights denoting the passing of each floor. He wore a white lab coat. On its lapel was a badge that proclaimed him the King of Oncology.

_Woah..._

Again, it meant nothing. Not really. This was not why Greg was here. Still...it couldn't hurt to follow Wilson, to see what was new and cool on this side of the universe.

_Ding!_

Out of the elevator he went, then down the corridor. No cane was necessary. He was all air and light, soaring, dipping, bounding off walls, keeping his subject in sight...

...floating behind Wilson, hovering by the ceiling inside the glass walled office. Of course he knew this office, or one just like it.

And there she was, the Dean of Medicine, wearing a lacy, black thing over an lacy white thing. Lovely as always. If it were possible, he would have caught his breath. But of course he no longer had breath to catch.

_It didn't matter. Only one thing did._

Cuddy and Wilson were talking now, yammering away. Their words were a funny, garbled mash, as rhythmic and goofy as a nonsense rhyme. They made no sense but Greg liked the flow. He sensed that once he reached his destination, it would all mean something.

One actual word stood out, clear as the _ding!_ that brought him here.

_House_...

They were talking about _House. _Cuddy threw her hands in the air each time the name fell from her lips. She was agitated, incensed. He remembered liking her this way...

_somewhere else..._

Out...out...OUT!

Down the corridor again. Now he was _whoosh_ing, zipping through rooms, offices, past reception desks, where the personnel was familiar but strange.

How could that be?

_Does it matter?_

Not one bit.

He was slowing now, not of his own accord...just along for the ride...passive...

_go where I got to go..._

By the window of Diagnostics, he hovered, floating, peering in at the long table. Here were useless coffee cups, empty, stained Styrofoam. One had fallen on its side, a dribble of tan liquid bleeding over its lip. There were legal pads, pens, paper clips tossed away, discarded. Once upon a time it would have irked him. Time-

_-no meaning-time has no-_

The doctor wiped the whiteboard clean, stared at the blankness for a half a minute before heading for the door. He was leaving, done with whatever work had gone on in this room. His face showed no sense of accomplishment, nothing that could be construed as satisfaction. It was just another day.

_You know that face, that look..._

_It's yours._

Doc leaned hard on his cane, as if his leg was giving him a particularly bad problem today. Greg was well acquainted with days like these; even though he was no longer a member of the corporeal club, he could still sympathize.

Down the elevator, into the corridor, then out the door. Step into the garage, time to ride the Repsol home, wherever home was now. Turning right instead of left would have brought him here in the first place. _This _is what mattered. _This_ was true.

_Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe, hey, hey! _he shouted into the ear his other half.

The doctor--Dr. House--faltered, his cane slipping from his hand, dropping to the cement floor. It landed a few feet away at the moment Greg sidled closer to this lanky, lean partner in crime. He felt the warmth of the man's breath, his agitation, the quickening tattoo of his heart. The last step was a doozy, like tumbling down a ravine. Easy, now, _Easy_. There! In like Flint! Behind the eyes.

_You and me, babe. Hey, hey!_

Yeah, man.

To his credit, the good doctor managed one weak push of resistance, nothing G-Man couldn't handle, then... a slow, cool wave of acceptance, as Greg luxuriated in the blood pulsing around him, warming him, fueling him, welcoming him...

_(the only thing that mattered...)_

...giving him that much coveted all access pass to the show.


	27. Closure

**A/N:** Thanks to all of you who've been reading "Rest Stop", and kudos to the site for enabling everyone who contributes stories to see where their readership lies. I've been amazed (and flattered) by how many folks have checked in from all over the globe. "Cool", as House might say.

My thanks also go out to Betz88, who has offered me insight, encouragement and friendship through the writing of this story...and beyond (go read her stuff, if you haven't already. It's killer).

Thanks very much again! I hope you'll enjoy this final chapter of "Rest Stop".

**-27-**

"Closure (2016)"

These backroads hadn't changed at all. It was as if they had been captured in time, to be displayed forever and always inside a snowglobe. Everything was still and silent and frozen. The snow encrusted evergreens flanked the rutted road just the way she remembered. The sky was one contiguous steel gray cloud. No merry carrot nosed snowmen lived here. It was the same sad New Jersey road she had left seven years before.

It did strike her odd that in those seven years not one ambitious entrepreneur had made tracks to build up this area. Making it as vapid and soul sucking as the rest of civilization couldn't be too difficult.

She rubbed her eyes and chided herself for being maudlin. When they started out on this trip, before even getting on the plane, she had promised herself to make her best attempt at keeping a good face on, the one she had dutifully crafted when Sam was little. It would be a difficult promise to keep, but she would do her best, for Sam's sake.

Regardless of everything that happened, Sam was still her kid. She had a responsibility to put him first and not wallow in the self pity that hung over her like the gloomy New Jersey cloud cover. He shouldn't have to put up with her moods. He shouldn't have been forced to put up with a lot of things.

He was all grown up now, twenty-one and legal. He had his own life, his own apartment, a girlfriend Lisa actually liked, and some brilliant prospects. He had won an ASCAP foundation scholarship and was currently attending music school at UCLA. She didn't want anything, especially not the past, to distract him from his life and goals. But it was time to bring him here, to give him what was his.

The waterworks were on their way; she could feel them rushing at her, sensed that familiar tightening in her throat.

_You didn't really think you would get through this intact, did you?_

She grabbed a tissue from her purse, dabbed at her eyes again. It wouldn't do to break down in front of him. Not that he hadn't seen her cry. At first it was all she did, on and off, every day for months. For a long time she existed in what she had come to call The Depths.

The news came hurtling at her at the worst possible time. She had been getting ready for bed when the phone rang. Charles was unusually attentive that evening, kissing her neck and running his free hand down her body as he handed her the receiver.

The man on the other end of the phone apologized for the lateness of the hour and identified himself as Carl Stolls, Gregory House's lawyer.

Those words caused something to tear at her insides, some spectral twisting, turning sword fueled by Carl Stolls's patter.

He remained coolly detached, totally professional, as he explained that Greg had listed her as next of kin. Next of Kin. The sword had become a fist, tightening around her entrails as Stolls went on, explaining about the murder, without going into the gory details.

_Buzzards...vultures...desert rats...tearing at his skin..._

Lisa now wished she hadn't asked to see the police photographs. At the time she thought that maybe she needed the closure. The subsequent nightmares told her she would have been better off not knowing.

She arranged for the body to be flown to Los Angeles, where, with James Wilson's help, she planned the funeral and burial. It seemed the right place to have him interred. L.A. was where he was headed when he died, the place he might have ultimately ended his journey anyway.

The news hit James hard, affecting his health, his schoolwork...his marriage. After a few weeks of watching him wallow in his seemingly unending sorrow, the wife became less than sympathetic, which prompted James to phone Lisa on the sly.

The calls would come at odd times, sometimes in the early morning, other times in the middle of the night. He never said hello, just began chattering the moment Lisa picked up the phone. He talked about everything, anything, school, money, home, Bonnie, food, TV, always making his way back, coming full circle to lament the senseless murder of his best friend. The words spilled from him like a great gushing fount, but Lisa never tried to stop him, and never asked him not to call. Listening to him go on about much of what she was thinking made her feel better. This unorthodox therapy seemed to work for both of them on many levels.

James left Bonnie soon after the funeral, threw himself into his schoolwork and was now in the final year of his residency at UCLA Medical Center. Oncology was his specialty, and Lisa promised he would always have a job with her if he wanted it.

With his help, and the address book Stolls had recovered from Greg's belongings, she was able to contact those who might have had some interested in paying their final respects.

There was Dylan Crandall, Denny and Marta Stockholm, (the couple who used to manage Dynamite), a small group of orderlies from Princeton-Plainsboro, whose names and numbers Greg saw fit to keep...

James made the call to Greg's mother, who after getting the news, took the next plane out, a dazed looking Colonel House in tow. The woman surprised them all by taking care of all the little details neither James or Lisa considered: the right sort of flowers, a reading of a particular poem Greg enjoyed as a child. Her contributions made the sparsely attended funeral something special, a celebration of life that might have even garnered Greg's seal of approval.

The music was selected by Dylan Crandall, who was also able to shed light on the cryptic "Lord of the Rings" writing discovered in Greg's wallet. He explained about the drummer known as Baggins and was not at all surprised that Greg had stolen the suicide note. With her permission, he was left to send it off to Baggins's family.

_Closure._

_Sam_ was driving _her_ now. Wasn't it amazing what seven years could do? The passage of time had made a man out of the boy.

During following months, as she wallowed in The Depths, her relationship with Charles took a serious, irreversible nosedive. The revelation of her relationship with Greg was the strafe bomb that sent life as they knew it into a tailspin, crashing and burning into cinders on a sunny Sunday morning.

Was this why Greg put her down as Next of Kin? There had always been a method to his madness.

Surprisingly she felt better once that tumultuous day had passed. It was as if a terrible poison churning inside her had finally been purged.

Sam came through the breakup better than expected. Lisa demanded and received full custody of him (without the slightest argument from Charles). It was as though contentment and peace of mind were written into the settlement along with financial compensation, division of property and child support payments.

* * *

She figured Sam would opt for something flashy when they arrived at the Hertz counter at the airport. But he surprised her by choosing a four wheel drive Volvo: a safety first vehicle that would get them over the ragged New Jersey backroads without a hitch.

"You still haven't told me why we're here." Sam turned into the parking lot of the Rest Stop and cut the motor. His smile was tolerant as he drummed those long fingers against the wheel. "We've come three thousand miles and I still don't know why."

"You've waited this long." Lisa pushed open her door. "A few more minutes ain't gonna kill you."

They stood by the car, the soft _tic, tic_ of the cooling motor drifted through the winter chill. They stared at the Rest Stop, that dilapidated relic, their breaths frosting, mingling, then floating off into the ether.

"It looks condemned." Sam gestured at the boarded up windows, the splintered porch, the awning that hadn't been hosed down since...forever.

"It's not." Lisa smiled, taking his arm. "Let's go inside."

"You have keys?" He looked at her, amazed, those dark eyes shining with curiosity. "I thought we were just here, you know, to reminisce."

She tugged at his arm, drew him closer to the building. "An awful long way to go just to dredge up old times."

"I know, but-"

They moved over the thin, ice encrusted snow, then stepped onto the porch, boots clomping against the half rotted wood. Lisa's keys jangled as she sorted through them. She found the right one, pushed into the lock and pulled open the door.

The store smelled damp as a wet dog, as musty as an ancient tomb. Lisa grimaced as she hurried toward the rear of the shop to turn on the heat and the lights. The old band posters were still on display but the jukebox was gone, put in storage. Smart move by Greg. By now it would probably be considered an antique, something of real value.

She'd had the utilities turned on earlier in the week and was glad she did. The apartment would doubtless be freezing. It never could hold the heat and would take a while to warm up in this weather. No sense being uncomfortable while slogging through what had to be done.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she traipsed around the barren place. The racks were dust caked. Cobwebs had taken up residence in the corners; the place had a haunted feel to it but she dared not go there, dared not ruminate about a restless spirit dancing in the rafters.

_He would laugh at you, call you Mistress of the Night._

Tears threatened again, but she wouldn't have it. She was here for Sam. Through the corner of her eye she watched him wander past the racks, kick at the dust, study the posters on the wall. He had grown into a bright, tall, handsome boy and despite the divorce, despite Greg's death, he still had that easy laugh, and that optimism that seemed to have been handed to him by the gods. He certainly hadn't inherited it from Charles or herself.

That easygoing nature would serve him well in life.

"Mom?" he called.

"Sam?"

"You still haven't answered me."

"I was just waiting for the apartment to warm up."

"Oh." He blinked, his smile taking flight. "You and Greg had a thing, didn't you?"

It was a fair question. Surprisingly, it was one he had never broached before. Maybe the fact was so obvious, he never needed to, until now.

"Yes, Sam." This time a tear took the initiative and made its way down her cheek before she could do anything about it. "We had a thing."

She headed up the stairs slowly, with some reluctance now, unprepared for the mix of emotions assaulting her with each step. What might the memories locked inside that room do to her? Was his scent still rife in there after all these years? Would she smell his soap, his deodorant, his cologne, _him _the moment she stepped inside_?_

"Should be nice and toasty in there by now, Mom."

"I know, Sam...I know." She sniffed and turned the knob, moving into the apartment. It smelled of dust and cobwebs but nothing else. Hardly a trace of him, of _them _remained.

Only the bed.

It was still made with the sheets and comforter she had bought eons ago. Their pillows were there, side by side. She wondered if she looked close enough, would she find a strand of hair or perhaps a telltale stain of a spilled drink?

_Stop it!_

This was Sam's day, his time for discovery. Lisa turned, savoring his smile as he approached the bed, as he saw what was laid out _on_ the bed.

"He never lied, did he?" He asked in a voice no louder than a sigh.

"Not if he could help it."

Seating himself on the end of the bed, he reached over and fingered the studs on the sleeve of the leather riding jacket. "I loved this thing, wanted it so bad. That too." He cast an eye toward the helmet hanging on the end of the bedpost.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get them for you then."

"It never crossed my mind that I wouldn't have them someday." Sam looked at her. "Greg said he would hold onto them for me and he did."

"In his will, he stipulated you get them after you turn twenty-one."

"Uh...wow." The sleeve fell from his fingers; the mention of the will flustered him, causing his hands to tremble in his lap.

"He also wanted you to have his books, his CDs and his piano, which are in a self storage place about a mile from here."

"I don't-" Sam shook his head, pressed his palms against his knees.

"Sam?"

"I _don't--"_

"Greg gave you the Rest Stop."

His head jerked up. He was dry-eyed but his lower lip trembled, a sure sign those tears were on their way.

"He stipulated it was to be yours, free and clear..." She reached into her purse for a tissue, and handed it to him. "You can do with it what you want."

"Oh..."

"You can even sell it."

"I would never do that," he said softly, balling the tissue in his fist. "It'll stay like it is until I find someone to run it. We'll stock it, put gas in the pumps." His eyes held a faraway look. "Bring back the jukebox."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"It'll be a lot of work." She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Now I know what you'll be doing on your summer vacation."

After taking a tremulous breath, Sam crooned in a low, ominous growl, "Everyday I got the blues, from my head down to my shoes."

He sounded too much like Greg for comfort, but she wouldn't tell him that. The song made her happy. It always had.

She sat beside her son, wrapping her arms around him. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear Greg moaning along with their rusty rendition of Buddy Guy's blues classic. "_Damn_ right, I got the blues," she sang to both of them_._ "D_a-a-mn _right."

_fin_


End file.
